White Eyes
by Zelda48
Summary: Steve has lived his life with his grandfather, Horace ever since his parents disappeared. Life has been peaceful and plentiful on his grandfather's farm but troubling events in a nearby town bring to light buried secrets of the past. Can Steve take back w
1. Chapter 1 The Unknowable Name

**Chapter 1 – The Unknowable Name**

"Steve! It's nearly eight. Darkness is at nine you know!"

"I know grandfather!" A sharp voice replied. That voice belonged to Steve, who was currently outdoors tending to a garden box.

"I'm glad you know Steven! I expect you inside in ten minutes, and not a second later!" Steve smiled as he lowered his hoe and glanced towards his grandfather. He was standing on the porch of the nearby house, his arms crossed in annoyance.

"Yes grandfather!" he called. "I'm coming." His grandfather snorted and walked back inside the house. "Five minutes!"

Steve sighed as he paused and took a look at his handiwork. He had been cleaning out the garden boxes for the last two hours, as they had had been infested with weeds. Steve was proud of his work. The row of six garden boxes ahead of him "Well that's done." Steve said, as he started going about picking up his supplies. He collected the weeds and threw them into a little gray tin bucket, which he called the 'weed bucket' as it was the one he always dumped the weeds into after gardening. With his free hand Steve grabbed the stone hoe and carried them over towards the house.

The house was a two story mini mansion, which overlooked the farm that Steve had just finished tilling. It was his grandfather's house, and Steve had lived there since he was two when his parents mysteriously disappeared. Steve was twenty; he was stocky, of middling height, brown haired and had bright blue eyes which reminded people he met of the clear blue sky. Steve was dressed in a teal blue shirt, one of several that he owned, and worn dark blue trousers. He had rarely worn any other colors.

Steve trudged up the steps to the landing and placed the weed bucket near a flower pot on the landing, and leaned the hoe up against the side of the house. Steve had done this many times, so many in fact that he had memorized where to put almost all of his gardening tools once he was done with them.

Having finished with this chore Steve glanced once more at the farm, checking if everything was in due order. The fields were well lit with torches, as was customary for plants required plenty of sunlight and little was to be found in the snowy regions of Asnor. Both gates were shut tight as well, and all the tools were put away. Steve ran a hand through his hair as he sat down in a nearby armchair and observed the days end. The sun was dying in the sky, casting dim reddish rays on their farm and the surrounding hillside. A balmy crisp air gently caressed Steve's face. It was springtime; they would be planting soon- after all spring was generally when everything started to grow thanks to the heavy rains that fell during the season. Steve glanced up at the sky, there were dark clouds gathering on the horizon. Such a sight could only mean that it would rain later that evening. That was good, he surmised as he had just planted some seeds and any rain was welcome, especially so early in the planting season.

"Steve!" a grumpy voice called. It was his grandfather. "Steve!" the voice called again. Suddenly the door burst open and a burly man with a ruddy complexion and a somewhat enlarged stomach stepped onto the patio. Steve's grandfather looked almost nothing like his grandson aside from the same blue eyes that most members of their family shared. His grandfather was named Horace, a name which suited the old man well. Horace was chubby, kindhearted and had a very strong opinion on nearly everything from the proper usage of flint and steel to the Mayor of the little town near the farm.

"Steve!" Horace exclaimed, looking at his grandson. Steve merely turned and looked back at him. "Oh thank Notch…" the old man clutched his chest "I'd thought you were still out there…Good gracious, it's past nine! Didn't you hear it's going to rain tonight? For the love of Notch boy…come inside!" Steve looked at him lazily.

"I know grandfather. I was just looking at the field."

"Yes, yes. Well you've seen it enough times to know what it looks like. " Horace grumbled. Steve shrugged and continued to sit in his chair.

"Steve."

"Yes grandfather?" Horace was glaring at him.

"Didn't you hear me?"  
"Yeah I heard."

"Good. Come inside." Horace grunted. Steve slowly got out of the chair and followed his disgruntled grandfather inside, carefully clicking the lock in the door behind him.

"In Notches name Steve, I must say you gave me quite a turn." Horace said fretfully as he disappeared inside the kitchen.

"It's alright grandfather. I know I'm not supposed to go out into the woods at night."

"You should know that by now." Steve heard his grandfather rumble from the kitchen. "You know what happened to the last people who did that…the ignorant fools."

"Yeah…you've told me that- how many times again?" Steve said scratching the back of his head. There was a pause in the conversation as Steve heard his grandfather's heavy steps pace around the kitchen.

"I only tell you that story Steven, to instill discipline in you. You cannot just go diddling about, and not give a single chunk about anything!" Horace often called his grandson Steven instead of Steve whenever he was giving a lecture or a punishment of some sorts to the boy. "The woods are a dangerous place Steven! I for one wouldn't go in there myself for all the gold in Arathor."

"It's okay grandfather. I didn't exactly plan on going into the woods, I mean I was just sitting on the porch." Steve said. "Can we please drop it?" he pleaded. Horace was always fretting over him; it would have annoyed him if he didn't have a good reason for doing so. There was another silence. Steve could hear his grandfather's heavy footfalls coming into the living room where he currently was.

"Of course Steven." Horace said. "I just want you to be okay. After what happened to your parents I feel it's my responsibility to ensure your safety…"

"I know." Steve said, feeling extremely awkward about the entire conversation. Steve's parents had abruptly disappeared, it was not known what had happened to them but they had been presumed dead for eighteen years. Steve had wondered for a while what happened to his parents, but anyone he asked just shrugged and changed the conversation. Even his grandfather didn't know what happened to them. "I'm twenty, I can take care of myself grandfather."

"Well…" Horace grumbled, "Just be in on time. Now, I'm making some a wee bit of a dinner snack, a spot tea and a few muffins. Would you care for any?" Steve grinned, his grandfather was a very good cook- he had won the last three baking contests in the village fair.

"Definitely." he said, wiping his brow. There was a small ornate plate in the center of the kitchen counter with several small muffins atop of it. There were also two teacups on both sides of the plate, which his grandfather was currently filling. Steve bounded forwards, his hunger getting the best of him and he reached for the nearest muffin before he caught Horace's indignant eye.

"Oi-! Don't touch that with your filthy hands!"

"Sorry." Steve said meekly, retracting his hand. He walked over to the sink and washed them several times, making sure to scrub off all the dirt that had accumulated on his fingers. A second later, he showed Horace his cleaned palms.

"They're okay?" Horace gave the tiniest of nods in assent. Steve smiled and reached for a biscuit. Several seconds later Steve was on his second and then his third.

"Steve. Steve!"

"Hm? Whazzat?" Steve said through the muffin he was currently eating. Horace was looking at him sternly, his arms crossed.

"Good heavens Steve don't eat them that fast! Save some for me!"

"Oh." Steve said, his cheeks flushing. He paused and swallowed the rest of the muffin before continuing. "Sorry grandfather."

Horace chuckled, "Looks like we'll have to work on those manners boy. Always, always remember to clean your hands before eating anything. Now-" He paused, picking a muffin off the tray "How is the gardening coming?"

"It's good." Steve said "I got another garden bed done today- and the seeds planted. Oh and I hoed the rest of them."

"Keep it up. I'm proud of you Steve." His grandfather said pompously, taking a sip of his tea. "I've seen your work, the garden beds look magnificent- and that's coming from an old farmer mind you."

"Thanks." Steve replied "I know they do."

"You could get a job in town if you wanted too, with work like yours." Horace pointed out. Steve sighed in annoyance at this,

"I don't want to grandfather! There aren't any good jobs in town."

"Oh yes there are boy." Horace rumbled, taking another indulgent sip of his tea. Steve leaned on the counter, he hated these conversations. He would get a job but nothing seemed to catch his interest for very long. "You had a good job as – what was it again? An apprentice to that blacksmith?" Steve especially remembered that job, it was exceedingly unpleasant. He still had burn marks from the difficult work.

"Yeah but…I don't want to work in a smithy! It's all dark in there and besides it's too warm!" Steve protested "I want to be out in the air, doing things! Like here."

"You can't work on the farm forever Steven." Horace said simply.

"Maybe I can."

"You must try to find a job that suits you Steve. Tomorrow I will take you into the town, I'm sure we can find something for you to do. Ah! No buts..." Horace said raising his finger. Steve opened his mouth as if to reply but his grandfather continued with his speech "I will find you a job. Living on the farm will not provide a living for you I'm afraid. How do you think I've made it the last thirty five years? I used to work at the bakery!" Steve had heard the story many times before. Since he had turned sixteen his grandfather had been nagging him about getting a job and staking out on his own. This was largely due to the fact that in his time, Horace had served in at least forty six different jobs and apparently expected Steve to do the same.

"Yeah, but you love baking!" Steve countered.

"My dear boy, that's not the point!"

"Well you clearly did well for yourself at the bakery. So why can't I be a farmer and sell crops at the market? You did what you liked. Why can't I?" Steve asked with a light smirk.

"Because it isn't profitable boy." Horace growled "There's ten other farmers around Darton who sell the same thing and grow even more than all the food grown here combined!"

"So I should do something I hate because it's profitable."

"It doesn't have to be something you hate Steven..." Horace replied.

"Alright, alright you've made your point." Steve admitted, throwing his hands up in surrender. "I'll go into town tomorrow."

"Good. That's the way my dear boy!" he said jovially, clearly pleased he had managed to persuade Steve to see his way about it. It didn't really matter to Steve, after all it was about the fifteenth time they had this particular conversation in the past three weeks. Horace was on to something and Steve could sense it.

"What have you been up too grandfather? You were inside all day."

"Oh a bit of cleaning…it's gotten a bit dusty...However I have been working on this map, of the area. I'm quite proud of it if I do say so myself." Horace explained.

"Oh?" Steve said interestedly. "Can I see it?"

"Oh- um well- it's not really finished." Horace flushed. "But oh – I suppose a look wouldn't do any harm. Besides, you ought to see it if you go into a medicinal trade."

Steve rolled his eyes at this medicine bored him. However that wasn't his only problem with the subject. Steve had taken introductory lessons from a medicine man in town a year before. The results of this apprenticeship had been disastrous. Steve ended up brewing a potion, which made the test patient sick and in addition to that had caused him to break out in painful warts. After that experience discussion on whether or not he would make a good medicine man had largely ceased.

Steve got up and followed his grandfather back through the kitchen, through the living room and up the stairs to the bedrooms.

"I've been working on it for some time- had to go and explore the surrounding region for three weeks to map everything properly!" Horace said as they climbed the staircase to the upper level of the house.

"I bet its interesting grandfather." Steve said, interjecting as much enthusiasm as he could into his words for good measure.

"Yes, yes it is." Horace said absentmindedly as he strode down the dim hallway to his study. Steve followed him and stopped at his grandfather's room. "It's not in here?" he asked in puzzlement.

"No, no in there. In here Steve! On the desk- come along…"

"Oh, right!" Steve said, pulling his head out back into the hallway, narrowly bumping his head against the wall as he did so.

"This," Horace started, gesturing grandly to an enormous unfurled parchment lying on the table in front of him "is the map of the surrounding regions and the herbs, gardens and all that rot around it. Come Steve! Here, get into the light..." His grandfather said, gesturing for him to come forward as he moved a lit torch closer to the map for Steve to see it better. Steve paced across the room towards the map and sat down at the desk and stared at it.

"What do you think of it?" Horace asked, looking at his map with exceeding pride. Steve looked at the map for a long time. So this was what his grandfather had been doing, all those nights for the past few months when he shut himself in his study.

The map was enormous. It spanned the entire length of the desk and was longer than two fully grown men stacked atop one anther. In the center of the map was their farm, which was drawn in surprisingly accurate detail. A key was written in the corner, which mapped an inch to be about three miles. The map depicted the woodlands around their farm, to the south and west which Horace had labeled the 'Baer Woods'. Steve had to admit the woods were aptly named. Baer meant dreadful, and the woodlands were dank during the daytime and pitch black at night, which made them quite a dreadful place indeed. Steve finally tore his gaze form the woods to the other parts of the map. Just a short distance south of their farm he saw a neatly drawn little town near a small black dot. It was Darton. And near it was the river that ran by the town, the Golgath River. To the far east of their farm there was a large black dot with a river encircling it.

"What's this?" Steve asked, pointing at the dot.

"Oh? That, my boy would be… Slithar Aemon, the capital of Asnor." Horace paused "Yes I know it's not finished- like I said before the map is still a bit of a work in progress..."

"What's this?" Steve asked pointing to another dot nearby. Horace peeked over his shoulder for a moment.

"Brookhaven. You don't know where Brookhaven is Steven? Good gracious boy! We must brush up on your history sometime."

"Oh well I didn't really know the exact bearing…"

"Well when this is done you can have a more proper look over at it."

"I think it's amazing." Steve said truthfully. Everything he recognized was accurately labeled, there was even a miniature drawing of their farm.

"Good. I want you to have it when you go to Arathor next week."

"Arathor? What? Hang on- what are we talking about?" Steve asked, whirling about and nearly falling out of the chair at the same time. Horace sighed,

"Arathor Steven. See that dot over there?" Horace said, gesturing with a pudgy finger to a smaller black dot also east of their farm but closer to it than Slithar Aemon.

"I'm going…there?" Steve asked, still in some disbelief as to what his grandfather was talking about. Steve had been sent on numerous errands before but had rarely gone much farther than Darton. "It looks like it's hundreds of kilometers from here!"

"No, about seventy actually."

"Seventy!"

"You won't be traveling alone." Horace said.

"Oh that's wonderful." Steve said sarcastically "That'll make a fat lot of difference when I get sent back here in a wooden box."

"A wooden box? No Steve you aren't going to die. Do you think I would send you on such a journey without adequate preparation and transport?" Horace said with visible irritation.

"Maybe." Steve retorted crossing his arms. "Besides why am I going there? You haven't explained that bit."

"An apprenticeship Steven." Steve rolled his eyes. Not again. "Don't roll your eyes at me. I am your grandfather and I know what is best for you. Surely you want to know what you're going to do before you immediately judge it?"

"Yeah I guess. Just…honestly… I wasn't expecting that- at all." Horace chuckled,

"I thought not. You will be an apprentice in a mine Steven." Steve nearly choked up his muffins at this,

"A mine?! I'm going to be a miner?" he asked incredulously "I've never mined anything before!"

"Perhaps not but there's always a first time for something." Steve opened his mouth in protest but Horace raised a finger "Don't worry- it is an iron mine and you will be supervised by a friend – an old chum of mine come to think of it. He's got a mine in Arathor and needs a bit of help. I told him you'd be the perfect volunteer."

At this revelation, Steve got up out of the chair and paced around the room. It was something he always did when struggling with a difficult decision or before doing something he disliked.

"I wish you'd asked me first…I'd have told your 'friend' to stuff it…"

"Steven! Our manners!" Horace said angrily, "Like I said, I am your grandfather and I have your best interests," he paused to place a hand over his chest, "at heart."

"Yeah okay- but I don't have a pickaxe or anything. Grandfather, I don't even know how to mine- well anything at all! You're just going to send me out there like that? I'd be worse than useless in a mine!"

"Why do you think I would suggest becoming a mining apprentice without giving you the means to learn anything? Steve you're assuming the worst far too often." Horace said irately "You won't be useless after I will teach you the basics here."

"But we don't have a mine, or a pickaxe." Steve protested. "Unless we're just going to blow something up and call it good-"

"As I recall… the blacksmith sells any mining equipment you need. And- there is a small strip mine nearby, we will practice there." Horace interrupted.

"Aren't mines dangerous though?"

"No – well yes some of them are but small mines are perfectly harmless." His grandfather said. This information did not increase Steve's confidence. He had heard stories about how dark mines were and how the ground could collapse beneath your feet or above your heard with a single misstep. Or how the men had fallen into lava traps and died horrible deaths.

"Oh? So if mines are so safe then what of all those horror stories from Darton?"

"They weren't 'horror stories' Steven." Horace said calmly, "That mine has been closed for years, besides most are not like that."

"How do you know?" Steve asked blithely. "Was mining one of your forty six jobs too?"

"Of course it was!" Horace said indignantly "Steven, do you really send you off to an iron mine without at least being able to teach you the know how first?"

"Yes." Steve said flatly, remembering his apprenticeship with the blacksmith.

"Yes of course, that was one time Steven!" Steve wiped his face with his hands before looking back up at his now-exasperated grandfather. "I can teach you what you need to know. I know you're afraid of the mines, and rightfully so! They can be frightening places at first, but as I said before this experience will only help you grow Steven."

"Yeah… yeah I bet it will…" Steve muttered, "I just feel a little nervous about the whole mining thing."

"So did I when I was learning how to do it. But…" Horace paused and gestured to a nearby torch "there's nothing to fear as long as you bring the right equipment." He gave Steve a brief smile. "Well you'd better be off to bed. It's almost ten."

"Just one more question. When are you going to start teaching me?"

"I suggest you get plenty of rest Steven. We start tomorrow." Steve gaped at him for a moment before he slowly turned and exited the room.

"Right." Was all Steve managed to get out before he walked down the hallway towards his bedroom.

"Good night Steve." Horace called. Steve didn't respond, his jaw muscles didn't seem to be working at the moment. He was going into a mine, tomorrow. It was ironic; he had agreed to go to town when Horace asked him too, only to find that he would be going there anyway! Steve found it hard to believe that just a few hours earlier he had been in such a good mood, after all the garden had been coming along so well… But after realizing his grandfather's plans for him Steve just wanted to hide in his bed as long as he could. He had nightmares of the mines, they were black holes to Steve. The mines, just like the woods seemed to speak of something terrible lying in the darkness inside them. Steve wanted to tell Horace his fears but he knew his grandfather wouldn't listen to him. He remembered the last time he had similar fears, the first time he went to buy meat from the butcher when he was eleven…

"_I won't!" Steve yelled, his small feet racing down the stairs. His grandfather followed him down the staircase, panting. _

"_Steven!" he yelled. Steve panicked, his grandfather was angry. He looked around wildly for somewhere to hide and spotted the dining table which was currently covered by a tablecloth. Just as his grandfather reached the bottom step Steve dived under the table and waited. All he could hear was the sound of his grandfather's panting. _

"_Steve!" he yelled again "Come back here! It's okay!" Steve whimpered quietly, hugging his legs close to the rest of his body. He wouldn't go to the Butcher's…the Butcher was scary…he kept staring at him with those eyes…those horrible red eyes…_

"_Steve!"_

_I'm not going….I'm not going….I'm not going! Steve thought to himself, his eyes shut tight. _

"_STEVE!" His grandfather was really angry now. Steve sniffled and backed into the center of the table. _

_I'm sorry grandfather…I don't want to go…I don't want to go…I don't want…_

"_Steve? Are you okay?" his grandfather's voice asked. Suddenly his grandfather's face appeared from under the tablecloth. Concern was etched onto his weathered face. Steve just stared at him, whimpering quietly. His grandfather sighed._

"_Come here." He said gently, reaching out a hand. Steve looked at his grandfather for a long time. _

"_A-are you taking me there?"_

"_Yes Steve."_

"_I don't want to go." Steve said averting his gaze._

"_What's wrong?" _

"_H-he has r-red eyes…it's scary…" his grandfather chuckled at this._

"_No he doesn't Steve. It's okay, but if it really bothers you we'll go together eh? How does that sound?" Steve looked down for several moments before responding._

"_T-the entire time?" _

"_Yes Steve, the entire time. Now do you want to come out?" _

"_Okay…" he said, unclutching his legs. But Steve didn't move, he was afraid. What if his grandfather was wrong?_

"_You're not coming out Steve." _

"_I'm scared grandfather." Steve said. Suddenly there was a loud thump and a moment later his grandfather had joined him under the table._

"_You weren't planning on staying under here the entire time were you?" he asked. "Not very roomy." Steve looked at the floor again. _

"_I'll be with you the entire time." His grandfather said, with a light pat on Steve's back. _

"_Promise?" Steve asked, looking up at his grandfather's face. He cracked a small smile and ruffled Steve's dark brown hair. _

"_I promise." He said. And with that Steve slowly crawled out from under the table. His grandfather picked him up gently and held him in the crutch of his arm, patting him gently on the back. Steve smiled weakly; he didn't feel so nervous anymore with his grandfather to protect him._

Steve had gone to the butcher's that day, and he managed to get over his fear. Steve wasn't about to hide like he had done when he was eleven. He was braver than that. Regardless, the prospect of delving into a pitch black mine wasn't appealing to him whatsoever. Steve felt like he had spent virtually his entire life doing things he hated. He knew it was selfish of him to think he could farm his entire life, but the appeal of it never ceased in his mind. Some part of Steve was always telling him to ignore what his father said about getting a job and just do what he liked. More than once Steve had planned to run away from home, but this had always been sullied by his ignorance of where to go.

Steve sighed and walked over to the bed where he speedily undressed and collapsed on the mattress. He spreading out his arms to give the rest of his body ample breathing room and stared at the ceiling for several minutes, lost in thought. Steve was curious and apprehensive about what the next day brought for him. He had gone through this process multiple times before after the multiple apprentices Horace had arranged for him in the past. Steve had tried almost everything from a blacksmith's apprentice to the assistant to the man who cleaned the town ditches. That job had been a punishment from his grandfather when he had misbehaved. It went so badly that he avoided the blacksmith whenever he visited Darton. It was also the last time Steve had ever misbehaved in his grandfather's presence.

However, there was use dwelling on it. He had to get some sleep and not stay up too late otherwise he'd just have more trouble focusing on his tasks tomorrow. Besides, he had to go mining and regardless of how safe his grandfather said mines were Steve planned to be very careful. He checked the clock by his bedside for a moment; the yellow sundial had mostly faded away to be replaced by a glowing white moon. That meant it was virtually dark outside. By Steve's reckoning it was probably around ten.

__Steve flopped over on the other side of the bed and looked at the wall for several minutes before flipping on his front and staring at the bed. He couldn't get to sleep. Steve closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was nervous, and the sooner he calmed down then he would finally get to sleep. Several minutes passed as Steve shifted from one position to another, trying to get comfortable. Nearly an hour passed before Steve's breathing gradually began to slow and he gradually began to settle into a deep sleep.

"Oi! Steve! Get up- get up." A gruff voice called. Steve mumbled a reply. A rough hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him lightly. "Steve, come on get up. You're not planning on sleeping all day are you?"

"I was thinking about giving it a try…" he muttered as he shifted upright.

"Good morning Steven." The voice said.

"Whazzat..?" Steve replied, now sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Horace stood at his bedside, his arms crossed and an irritated expression on his face. His beard was frizzled, as it usually was when he was annoyed about something.

"Oh! Did I oversleep?" Steve asked, scrambling for his clock.

"No. Not quite. We're going into town in fifteen minutes, get dressed and ready. I'll be waiting by the door." Horace said, as he turned and departed – shutting the door with a slam.

"Yes grandfather." Steve said as he slowly ambled out of bed. The one thing he would not miss about home was getting up when someone else told him too.

Steve shuffled through his chest and pulled out his best leather jerkin and pants and put them on. After several more minutes, he found his socks and put those on too. Then he walked over to his bedside and checked his clock. A golden, vibrant sun had largely replaced the white moon on the dial. Steve watched the dial for a moment, the sun was getting brighter and the moon was disappearing. Steve smiled and pocketed the watch. Next he grabbed a belt from his hangar and laced it around his waist. There were two open loops on the belt, where he usually stored extra tools he was carrying. One loop was used to carry a torch, especially at night- and the other was for small tools such as a spade. Having finished dressing, Steve put on his boots- making sure to tie the laces extra tight before he opened the door and ambled into the hallway.

"All ready to go Steven?" his grandfather called.

"Yes grandfather." Steve replied, walking down the steps into the living room. His grandfather was sitting in a chair by the door; he was holding a tool in his hand. The tool had a short, stout wooden handle and a curved half-moon appendage attached on top, which appeared to be made out of stone.

"Whoa- is that a pickaxe?" Steve asked. He had seen a few carried by miners in Darton.

"Ah! Dressed and ready I see!" Horace said with a small smile. His grandfather hefted himself out of his chair and opened the door with his free hand.

"Grandfather- is that a pickaxe?"

"Yes it is. This is my old pick, I found it by the shed while I was digging around a bit this morning. I almost forgot I had it but it was there the whole time." Horace explained, exiting the door with Steve in tow.

"Will I be using that?" Steve asked.

"This? Oh no- you will need proper tools. This is a relic." Horace admitted with a small smile "You see the crack here?" he said gesturing with a pudgy finger to a long crack in the pick. "It doesn't have a lot of uses left."

"What'll I be using then?" Horace appeared thoughtful for a moment

"Lots of questions, good. Keep asking boy. The more you ask the more you know. Questions, always ask plenty of questions!" Horace paused to open the gate, "An iron pick. Actually, while we're walking I might as well tell you as much as I can. This," he continued, hoisting up his pick to the light, "is a stone pickaxe as you have probably been able to deduce. They're a bit heavy, but useful. There are five types of picks, just as there are five types of hoes, swords and shovels. The lowest grade is a wooden pick, the second grade is this one- a stone pick, the second best is an iron pick and the very best is a diamond pick. The fifth is the gold pickaxe, and they're in their own category."

"A diamond pickaxe?" Steve asked with wonderment. Diamonds were sharper than anything, he had heard they could cut through the toughest of substances with ease.

"Oh yes. Very valuable, and viciously difficult to craft. I've never met a man fortunate enough to own one, but I'd love to get my hands on one… oh yes that would make everything quite a bit easier…" Horace said dreamily before shaking his head and returning his attention to his pupil "Now, each pickaxe can mine certain ores. Wooden ones can only mine coal, stone and gravel- all very slowly. They're complete rubbish in my opinion. Not even worth the effort to craft them. With a stone pick you can mine iron and all the ores wood picks can mine at a much speedier rate. Stone picks are useful, but a bit burdensome. Here," Horace thrust the pick at him, "you should feel it for yourself. In the mine you and the pick are one. Thus, the first thing you want to know is to get a good feel for the tool you're using." Steve took the stone pick by the handle and almost at once his hands drooped. Steve struggled to hold the thing aloft for a few moments before he speedily handed it back to his grandfather.

"They are a bit heavy aren't they?" Horace said with a smile.

"A 'bit'? That thing weighed more than a load of bricks!" Steve exclaimed, wondering why anyone would want to craft a tool that hefty.

"Precisely, and that my boy is why most craftsmen tend to lean towards iron pickaxes, not as burdensome and quite a bit sturdier than stone picks. Aside from that, with an iron pick you can mine nearly anything- from diamonds to redstone, to lapis lazuli and at a speedy rate. Diamond picks can mine faster than any of them- as you have likely guessed- and can mine one thing that the others cannot, obsidian."

"Obsidian?" Steve asked. He had heard of it, and even seen pictures of it before. It was a purple block but he had never been able to figure out what it was used for. "Why would you want to mine that?"

"Not for any practical purpose boy, I can tell you that." Horace said darkly, "Obsidian's a mysterious ore. A strange block. It's used for odd things…creations that unleash a terrible power… You needn't learn about that Steven. You probably will never come across the stuff; it only forms under extreme circumstances."

"Okay…" Steve replied, scratching his head. Horace seemed very reluctant to tell him anything about the strange purple block. "Then why,"

"You don't need to know anything else about it." Horace interrupted, "Is that understood?"

"Yes grandfather." Steve replied, unsatisfied with his grandfather's explanation. He was now more curios than ever to find out about the mysterious purple block. Why had it unnerved his grandfather so much? What 'terrible power' could those blocks unleash? Steve looked at his grandfather; he was staring at Steve in an odd way. Did his grandfather know what he was thinking?

"I mean I won't go looking for it if that's what you mean."

"Yes, yes good, you'd be ruddy fool to do it and you aren't a fool are you Steven? Let's see…now I didn't tell you about gold pickaxes did I?" Steve shook his head, "Ah! Yes, gold pickaxes last about as long as wooden picks since gold is a soft metal and isn't very durable. Gold picks can mine through anything except diamond and obsidian and exceptionally quickly, quicker than even a diamond pick. But they're hardly worth the effort to craft. An enormous sum of gold is required for a solid gold pickaxe- as you can imagine! And for a pick that only lasts thirty three uses, well let's just say they're a waste of hard earned gold. Now after listening to me talking I suppose you're a bit hungry. Come to think of it you haven't had breakfast have you Steven?" Horace rumbled.

"Uh- no." Steve said. He was already starting to feel a dull pang of hunger in his belly.

"Here." Horace said, pausing in the middle of the road to reach into his knapsack. After a moment of shuffling he handed Steve a stale loaf of bread. "There's no sense mining on an empty stomach."

"Thanks." Steve said, tearing the loaf in two. He raised a piece to his mouth and ate it quickly. "It's good."

"Excellent, excellent. Not feeling under the weather or anything Steven? All ready for this new excavation into mining?"

"I'm not too excited." Steve replied, "I keep getting this image of a big, gaping, bottomless, dark hole in my mind. To be honest it frightens me a little."

"Understandable." Horace nodded. "Try not to worry Steven. In the mine we are going to practice in there is nothing that can harm you."

"Alright, but if I get injured I'm going to hold you to that." Steve retorted. Horace chuckled.

"Well as long as you don't act like a fool or journey off into some ravine when you're not prepared you shouldn't be harmed."

"I wasn't planning on being reckless if that's what you mean."

"I should hope not." Horace replied. Suddenly their solace was broken by the sound of hooves on the path behind them.

"Horace!" a voice called. "Horace!" they turned around to see a large wooden cart pulled by two ponies come to a stop behind them. A thin man with a wisp of white hair dropped the reins and jumped to the ground. He was smiling.

"Nate? By Notch it's been…nearly a year!" Horace exclaimed, breaking into a wide smile himself. Nate, Steve thought for a moment trying to register the name while the two friends chatted rapidly near the wagon.

"Fancy meeting you out on the road like this Horace…"

"It's wonderful to see you too, as always Nate."

"Of course, of course! But I didn't expect to meet you by chance. In fact I was planning to drop by tomorrow, but since I met you today…"

Nate looked at Steve and smiled again.

"Steven! Long time no see! Do you remember me?"

"Uh…" Steve paused for a moment, before feigning a smile of his own "Yeah- I remember you. You used to give me rides in your cart right?"

"He remembers!" Nate laughed.

Nate was a tall man who had tanned skin and wore a weathered white shirt with brown pants that went to his ankles. His eyes were twinkling and his face never seemed to stop smiling. Nate was the type of man who looked funny in both manner and dress.

"Oh yes, that was quite a time. And how you've grown!" he said ruffling Steve's thin hair. Steve flushed with embarrassment at this. Nate was also one of those old people who treated him like he was still twelve. "You look like a man now."

"Yeah- I guess I do." Steve replied. "What have you been up to for the past year?"

"Business Steven, plenty of business." Nate said brusquely. "Has Horace been keeping you busy all this time?"

"Oh- yeah, definitely." Steve replied. Nathan laughed,

"And it shows! You've filled out quite a bit…" Nate paused "I went by your house Horace, that's a beautiful house- and an excellent garden to boot."

"You can credit Steve for that." Horace said proudly.

"Yeah I did it." Steve said.

"It's a beautiful piece of gardening." Nate agreed.

"Yes well – I was taking him to the mine in town. We can't stop for very long Nate." Horace interjected.

"Ah- I understand." Nate replied. "The local mine eh? That's still a ways from here."

"Maybe you can take us?" Steve suggested.

"Certainly." Nate smiled "There's plenty of room in my cart, so by all means, climb aboard!" he said, gesturing to the cart.

"Thanks!" Steve said gratefully as they climbed into the cart and took a seat on a bench. Steve hesitated from wrinkling his nose, the smell of cow dung in the cart was nearly overpowering.

"Now then- to the mine eh?" Nate said as he took his place on top and grabbed the reins. After a moment the cart jolted forwards, causing Steve and Horace to tumble off their seats onto the floor with a loud thump. "Alright back there?" Nate called.

"Yes! Yes we're fine. Just had a bit of a fall." Horace said, giving Nate a small smile.

"Sorry about that…" Nate said glancing back. "The ponies…they're always a bit fast at the start really."

"Is that so?" Steve asked with heavy sarcasm. Horace gave him a look before returning to his seat.

"So- Nate, where have you been all this time?" Horace asked.

"Out in the world Horace!" Nate called back, pausing again to crack the reins. The cart gave another jolt, Steve gripped his seat tightly. He had already bumped his head from the first time. "All over the world. Yes- I've been to Messalla, Teirm, even to Auckland. But I didn't stay there long; it was a bit too cold for me."

"You've been to Auckland? Good gracious Nate what in the name of Notch possessed you to go there?" Horace asked incredulously.

"Trade Horace, trade. You wouldn't believe what the people there will pay for a decent pelt! I made a fortune there, very open market."

"What's Auckland?" Steve asked.

"Auckland is an enormous northern kingdom, far north of here. It's sparsely inhabited and unbelievably cold!" Nathan explained. "I don't know how they live up there. But I wasn't surprised they bought my firs…gods the weather!"

"Is it like winter here?" Steve asked. Nate laughed

"Like here? Oh no, no, no Steve. Is it alright if I call you Steve or would you prefer Mr. Steve?"

"Steve's fine." He said. Horace and Nate laughed.

"Alright, Steve. Mr. Steve sounds a bit silly, I'll grant you that." Nate said. "So you're going to be a miner eh?"

"Yes." Steve said without enthusiasm.

"Yes he is!" Horace boomed, clapping Steve on the shoulder. "I'm sending him off for an apprenticeship in Arathor in a week from now."

"Is that so?" Nate said with interest. "Well I wish you well Steve. That's very brave of you, I couldn't go down in the mines myself, and personally I prefer to stay aboveground."

"Yes, but Steve's made of sterner stuff." Horace retorted.

"Yeah- yeah that's me. You won't find a tougher guy around." Steve said with a weak smile. He felt sick to his stomach and Nate's aversion to the mines hadn't helped his nervousness one bit. Steve wished they could just drop the conversation and travel in peace.

"Is this is first apprenticeship Horace?" Nate asked.

"Oh no…he's had several before this one…" Horace said absentmindedly as the two adults drifted off in conversation.

Steve leaned against the side of the cart, watching their progress. A warm breeze brushed lightly against his face as he listened to the adults chatter. But Steve wasn't paying much attention to their conversation but instead to the surrounding woodlands. The sunlight penetrated the trees in several places, scattering sunlight across the ground. As the cart slowly moved by he saw a squirrel dash up a tree, at the same time several crows took flight, cawing loudly. Steve glanced upwards, the tops of the pine trees swayed in the wind. Was the wind blowing harder? Steve looked back at his grandfather; his beard was swaying in the wind. So it was blowing harder after all.

Steve looked back at the forest. His skin felt slightly cooler than before. The sun wasn't shining anymore either. Steve stared at the ground, was it getting darker? Steve thought he saw a shadow spreading from the forest, slowly spreading across the sunlit patches of moss. It was getting closer and closer. A chill ran down his spine, but he didn't know why. Steve shook his head, a low buzzing filled his ears. _Etihw seye, Etihw seye, Etihw seye…_a snakelike voice whispered_ Etihw seye, Etihw seye… ETIHW SEYE! _The voice chanted over and over again. Suddenly a pair of glowing white eyes appeared in a hundred places out of the forest, they were staring at him. Etihw Seye! Etihw Seye! Steve felt nervous; he didn't know what was going on. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Steve yelled. The buzzing slowly faded and Steve fell to the floor, the last thing he saw was a strange white cloud floating above him.

"Steve! Steve!" a familiar voice yelled. Steve opened his eyes weakly; he was sprawled on the floor of the cart. His chest hurt, his throat hurt, his whole body hurt. People were standing around him on a background of the purest white. Steve briefly wondered if he was in the Aether before his vision cleared up and the world came back into view.

"Steve! Are you okay?" the shape of Nate had appeared. Why was Nate there? Steve wondered. Had they stopped? The cart wasn't moving anymore. Why had they stopped?

"I-I don't know…did we stop? W-wh- what did we stop for?"

"We stopped a while ago Steve. We've been waiting twenty minutes for you to wake up."

"W-wake up? Twenty minutes?"

"You were yelling your head off boy." Horace said, extending a burly hand, hoisting Steve upright.

"I-I was?" Steve asked shakily.

"Yes and it scared the life out me. What happened to you?" Horace asked, looking very concerned.

"I saw this darkness…it was really weird. This voice…it sounded like a snake- it kept repeating the same thing over and over, Etiwh Seye." Horace looked at him quizzically.

"Etiwh Seye? I think you'd better sit down Steve." he asked, guiding Steve over to his seat. Steve sat down without complaint. "You're just a bit nervous that's all."

"Right I'm just a bit nervous…that was weird..." Steve murmured as he lay back on his seat.

"Worried are you?" Nate asked, giving Steve a worried look. "When I'm worried about something I whistle a bit, or maybe a bit of a drink." Nate disappeared for a moment as Steve glanced around.

"No- Nate, oh really!" Horace sighed in anguish "He's going to get some spirits…the drunken fool."

"I was out for twenty minutes?" Steve asked incredulously.

"Yes you were and it scared the life out of me. What's wrong with you boy? You've never been this frightened before. What's this Etihw Seyah?"

"Etihw Seye." Steve corrected him. "I don't know where it came from. I was a little nervous last night…you know I've never been in the mines before and all that. No I was just sitting here, listening to you and Nate and looking at the forest…before I heard this buzzing in my ears. It was like I was in a trance or something, and these voices- they were snakelike- kept whispering in my ears 'Etihw Seye, Etihw Seye'…Oh and yeah there were like a million white eyes staring at me from the trees. It was strange." Horace looked at Steve for a moment before turning to the side and shaking his head.

"I don't know where you come up with these stories boy but there's no Etihw Seye that I know of."

"Maybe Nate knows." Steve suggested.

"Perhaps, why don't you ask him when he gets back? But please don't ask for any spirits. His brews are a bit…strong shall we say?"

"I won't." Steve said obediently.

"Good. The last thing I need on my hands is a stone drunk grandson."

Steve could almost picture the image now. Him, lying on the porch of his grandfather's house laughing for no reason and a bunch of bottles clenched in his hands. And then to his side would be Horace, his arms crossed, giving his disapproving stare. Steve smiled mischievously at the thought of it. He was almost tempted to go on a drunken binge just to see his grandfather's indignant face.

"So you saw a bunch of glowing white eyes eh?" Horace grunted.

"Yep." Steve replied. The sight had shaken his nerves. The white eyes were creepy enough but the strange glow that came from them, it seemed to hide something much more sinister.

"If you were anyone else I'd wonder if you'd had a bit too much of Hock's liquor." Horace grunted. Steve smiled at this. Hock owned a tavern in Darton; he was always friendly to Steve and ran the most profitable business around. The number of people looking to drown their sorrows in a pint of Darton ale was never a small number.

"We can go to the mine tomorrow Steve, if you're not up to it." Horace continued.

"How about never?"

"No."

"Fine, I can still do it." Steve conceded "It was just an illusion, I'm okay. I'm not going crazy like Aunt Gwen."

"That nutty woman…well good, the last thing this family needs is another one of _her_. Horace briefly patted him on the back "Always see your goals through Steven. Always! Maintain your diligence; it's the sign of a good worker- or perhaps in your case a good miner."

"Well it wasn't really my goal or anything…" Steve said.

"You know what I mean." Horace responded, in a final way which indicated that the subject of whether or not Steve was going to be a mining apprentice was closed. "Just don't go crazy on me or I'll have your head examined."

"I'll try not to." Steve smiled.

Suddenly Nate bounded up towards them with two bottles, one in each hand. Both of the bottles were dusty and bore the evidence of a very long travel. Steve could glimpse the label of one of the bottles; it read _Artemis' Breathtaking Brew: Guaranteed to induce lasting Happiness._

"Oh, Steve are you feeling better? I brought some…"

"Yeah I'm feeling better," Steve started.

"I – really! No drinks today! Steve is supposed to be completely alert for his first foray into mining."

"It can't hurt him that much Horace. Besides it'll do his nerves some good. Burn me, if I had a hallucination I'd need a little tonic for the nerves myself!"

"Tonic?! This is alcohol Nate! Give Steve some of this and he'll be seeing things alright!" Horace roared, getting on his feet and angrily snatching a bottle away from Nate.

"Alright, alright. Can I have my bottle back now?" Horace sighed and reluctantly gave him his bottle back. "Alright there Steve?" Nate asked, holding both bottles close to his chest.

"Yep." Steve replied. "Oh – Mr. Nate?"

"You can call me Nate." Nate said, flashing a smile.

"Uh- right well do you know what Etihw Seye is?" Steve asked. Nate looked at him in confusion at this,

"Etihw Seye? No, I haven't heard of any Etihw Seye… This new generation, the things they come up with eh Horace?" He said to Horace with a laugh.

"Yes Nate… the things they come up with."

"Right well…still a little ways to go to Darton. I'd uh suggest you hold on to your seats because of the ponies, well you know."

"We know!" Steve said, not forgetting the tumble he had taken earlier. Hardly any sooner had Steve said this before the wagon gave a sudden lurch and Steve and Horace tumbled onto the floor with a muffled crash.

"Sorry!"

"This is the last time…"Horace mumbled under his breath, as he slowly lifted his hefty form off the floorboards. Steve silently agreed with his grandfather. He did not fancy more rides in Nate's cart either.

They traveled in silence for fifteen minutes or so at a slow pace. Steve resumed his place at the far right corner of the cart listening to his grandfather and Nate chat amiably about various subjects. Steve thought about the strange sight he had earlier. Etihw Seye… Steve wondered what it was. Steve couldn't even figure out what the dream had meant and made a mental note to visit Madame Isae as soon as possible. Madame Isae was a wise-woman and a dream interpreter. Most towns had one of them according to Horace. Maybe, Steve reckoned, she could tell him what his sight had meant after all, he nor anyone else had any idea who Eithw Seye was. Steve paused in his thoughts for a moment; maybe someone did know who the white eyed thing was. Steve remembered seeing Nate's eyes darken at the mention of Eithw Seye. Was it recognition? Maybe it was just a trick of the light. In either case, Steve had a feeling Nate was keeping something from him. The way his face darkened – it was unmistakable; Eithw Seye couldn't mean anything good.

Suddenly the cart lurched to a stop, jolting Steve out of his thoughts. He heard a loud thud, followed by what sounded like a muffled curse. His grandfather had fallen onto the floorboards of the cart again. Steve wondered for a moment how he hadn't fallen himself before he got out of his seat and helped his grandfather up.

"Whew…" Horace exhaled deeply. "That was exciting."

"Alright there Horace?" Nate's wheezy voice called.

"Yes, yes I'm fine Nate, sixty-eight years old but still as strong as an ox." Horace said brusquely "In fact, I'm still strong enough to ride in this cart without doing myself an injury…" he continued under his breath. Steve smiled.

"What was that Horace?"

"Nothing! Thank you for the ride." Horace responded with a strained smile.

"Good, good it was the least I could do for an old friend…Ah!" Nate smiled, appearing at the side of their cart. He paused for a moment and folded down a collapsible ladder to the earth and motioned them to it. "Come on, one at a time. Mind you- it's a bit of a squeeze…"

Steve easily descended the ladder and made it onto the ground. Horace on the other hand took several minutes and after a great deal of huffing and puffing and coaxing from Nate he joined Steve beside the wagon.

"Ah, here we are." Horace said with relief. Steve glanced around him. There were several houses, some with straw thatched or wooden roofs. Curving between the houses was a winding cobblestone road. Three children played with a ball in the street, bouncing it high up into the air and then catching it. On the porch of one of the nearby houses a woman in a dour brown dress was sweeping her porch. Behind her a man was tilling his small garden-box.

The town in front of them was Darton. It was a tiny town of about two hundred people, many of whom lived on farms or small houses. Darton was the kind of town that never seemed to change either for the positive or the negative. In Steve's opinion it was both one of the most pleasant and the most boring places to live.

"Well, we'll be off Nate." Horace said, shaking Nate's hand momentarily.

"Sure, good to see you Horace. I'll be staying at the inn of the Lonely Dragon if you want to talk about anything."

"Yes, I've wanted to talk to you about that cart of yours. I fell off three times during the trip-" Horace started.

"I fell of twice." Steve added.

"Oh? Sorry I got a bit preoccupied, I didn't notice." Nate said apologetically. "Perhaps we can discuss that another time Horace? I know you're busy –"

"Yes, yes of course. I just wanted to let you know- it was a bit of a bumpy ride." Horace said, scratching the back of his head momentarily "Farewell Nate. I'll stop by later this evening."

"Certainly Horace. And by all means, bring Steve with you." Nate replied as he climbed back into his cart. "How does that sound Steve?"

"Yeah- great." Steve said with a weak smile. Nate laughed and cracked his whip. The cart gave another great jolt and plodded ahead.

"Farewell Horace!" Nate called, waving briefly. Horace raised his hand in return and with that Nate and his cart disappeared along the cobblestone street ahead of them.

"Alright, so where's the mine?" Steve asked. Horace studied his pickaxe for a moment before responding.

"I'll show you."

And so the two walked for several minutes, largely in silence broken on occasion by a greeting or a brief chat with someone Horace knew. Steve hoped that he might see Nick, a woodcutter for the local mill and his friend since childhood. He glanced towards the nearby woods occasionally as if he was expecting to see his friend there but no one came.

Steve had no idea where they were going. He had been around most of Darton in his visits there with his grandfather but the path they were taking led outside the town. Steve quickened his pace for a moment to keep up with his grandfather who was walking quickly despite his burdensome pickaxe.

"Slow down!" Steve panted, as he narrowly avoided tripping on a nearby log.

"Slow down? Am I going too fast for you?" Horace called back with obvious amusement.

"Yes!"

"Then walk faster my dear boy!" Horace laughed. Steve cursed, although quietly so Horace wouldn't hear him and sped up his pace. After several more minutes Horace stopped and looked down. Steve hadn't seen him and nearly crashed into the old man before he looked up, tripped and fell over into space. There was muted crunch as Steve crashed into the soft turf of what could only have been dirt.

"Well it looks like you've found the mine." Horace observed dryly. A mine? What mine? Steve whirled around and looked up. His grandfather was standing a few feet above him, an unimpressed look on his face. Steve was in a pit.

"Gah!" Steve yelled, as he slowly righted himself and took a moment to brush the light brown dirt off his shirt, leaving a brownish stain on it. "Yeah I did."

"You had what some would call a bit of a crash landing." Horace chortled softly. He had suddenly appeared beside Steve in the mine. "No matter, the important thing is you're not harmed."

"Um, I thought I was supposed to get a pick too." Steve asked.

"Yes… well before we spend our money you should at least know how to use one."

"It's your money." Steve retorted.

"Precisely, and I'm not about to buy a pickaxe for someone who doesn't know how to mine a single block yet so pay attention." Horace said irritably. "Now-" he continued hoisting the stone pick "watch."

Steve stepped back as Horace raised the pick over his head. He fully expected the stone to smash into hundreds of bits cut him in a million different places if he was too close. But it didn't happen.

Horace brought the pick down, and all Steve heard was a small thump. Steve peered closer and saw there was a small crack in the stone where Horace had smashed it. Steve wasn't sure what surprised him more, the fact that there wasn't a single chink of stone anywhere or the fact that the stone pick hadn't broken. After a brief pause Horace raised the pick again and smashed it into the stone, and did so three more times in quicker succession before he stopped. He took a breath for a moment and motioned Steve forward.

"Your turn Steven." Horace said, handing him the pick. The block Horace had been mining had been smashed into several small chunks.

"Uh- right." Steve replied, taking the heavy pick.

"Four hits Steven, that's all it takes with regular stone. Five for coal, and seven for iron." Horace said, standing to his side. Steve thought for a moment and chose his spot, on the block next to the one Horace had mined.

"Alright…I got this…" he murmured, raising the pick and smashing it into the stone. A dull pain shot up his arm, and he stumbled dropping the pick. "Aaah!" he cried, grasping his arm. His grandfather sighed, moved towards him and picked up the fallen pickaxe.

"Well that wasn't that bad for a first try."

"I'm sorry." Steve muttered. He was embarrassed by his poor performance.

"Don't be. I hit myself in the foot in my first foray into mining- couldn't walk for a week."

"Yeah well I might have pulled something." Steve said feeling his arm. There was a slight pain, which continued from his wrist all the way up to his shoulder.

"Try it again." Horace replied. Steve opened his mouth as if to say something but decided against it. He took his grandfather's pick and raised it over his head again. But before Steve could bring the pick down he felt his grandfather's hand gently grasp his arm.

"You'll do yourself an injury like that boy." He growled softly. "Here." Horace guided Steve's arms to his side. "Swing it like that. Don't swing it over your head or you stretch your arms too much."

"Oh okay." Steve nodded.

"Got it?"

"Yeah, thanks." Steve replied. He took his stance again; raised the pick to his side and slammed it down into the stone. This time Steve felt almost nothing except for a small jolt. He looked at the stone again; the crack in it had gotten larger.

"Did it hurt that time?" Horace asked.

"No! No- I didn't feel a thing." Steve smiled as he swung the pick again onto the ground, and again in an increasingly fluid motion. He did not feel any more pain save for a gentle bump every time he swung the pick. Suddenly, almost silently, the stone broke in two leaving four even pieces where the block was. Steve paused and looked at his handiwork and then at the stone pick. There was a small crack in it but to Steve's wonder the pick had stayed in one piece.

"Very good Steven, very good." He heard his grandfather say. "Got the motion eh? That's excellent, perfect. Let's see you mine a few more!"

"Do you know how many uses this has left?" Steve asked, looking slightly worriedly at the crack in the pickaxe. The last thing Steve wanted to do was to break his grandfather's pickaxe on his first day using it!

"Oh that old thing should be able to mine about fifteen more blocks or so. How many were you planning to do?"

"Not that many." Steve replied. Horace chuckled, "Then by all means mine away Steven."

Steve smiled and took his stance at the block next to the two he and his grandfather had just mined. Taking care to lift his pick to the side he slammed it down on the stone in four quick motions, hitting the same place on the stone every time. A few minutes later Steve had broken through five blocks with little trouble and no pain. Evenly split stone shards lay in the spots where he had mined them.

"Done!" Steve called. He looked around for his grandfather who was currently sitting on a nearby boulder, eating a sandwich.

"Hm?" his grandfather responded. "Ah! One-mumnt Stve…" Horace fought out the words. Steve smiled proudly as his grandfather walked over and briefly passed over his mining.

"Good, very good! I think you've almost earned that pickaxe Steve." Horace said proudly. "The iron one of course. Now, first, show me again how to swing a pick…"


	2. Chapter 2 Fiendish Visions

**Chapter 2- Fiendish Visions**

**A/N: Hey guys, I worked really hard all week and I am very proud to release Chapter 2 of White Eyes! I'm pretty excited to release this chapter since the action begins to ramp up a little bit in this one. **

**Unfortunately I'm sorry to say that the next chapter will not be released for at least another week due to a ton of testing next week. Because of this I will have almost zero time to write. The good news is its only 40 more days until summer!**

**Also to SoulErrorAWitch thanks a lot for the review, hugely appreciate it. And thanks everyone for the favorites/support- it really helps. **

The zombie slammed the shovel down, there was a white flash and Steve attempted to shield himself with his arms. Suddenly a loud bang echoed across the strip mine, not the sound of the shovel penetrating his flesh. Steve opened his eyes to see his grandfather's stone pickaxe an inch from his head; his grandfather was struggling with the zombie. Steve stumbled back as the zombie slammed the shovel down a third time. He wondered briefly how his grandfather had gotten the pick so quickly but he shoved the thought aside. His grandfather was in front of him, his pick raised and aimed at the zombie.

"Stay back Steve!" his grandfather yelled in a scared voice as the zombie stumbled. The thing was evidently surprised at the appearance of another human. The zombie evidently detected its target's fear and reached for his grandfather, moaning loudly. Horace stepped back and then moved to the side. Steve watched in fright as the zombie stumbled towards his grandfather.

"Grandfather! No!" Steve yelled.

"Steve- get away!" Horace bellowed, taking another step back. Steve reluctantly obeyed him. Steve watched for a moment as Horace led the zombie into one of the mined out chunks and stopped.

"Watch out!" he screamed. Horace seemed to be ignoring him. Was his grandfather going to die for him like that? Steve watched, mouth agape as the zombie stumbled forwards- right into the miniature pit. How could it be so stupid? Steve was rooted to the spot, staring as the zombie struggled to get out of the pit for another go at his grandfather.

Then without warning, the zombie burst into flames. The thing moaned loudly as it tried to stab Horace with the shovel but it missed. It flailed for several seconds in desperation, trying to get at its human prey. Horace glared at the thing and struck it to the side of the head with the pickaxe in one full swing. The burning head of the zombie flew across the ground and landed with a sickening thud, extinguishing itself in the process. The burning corpse, deprived of its head collapsed into ashes, and the shovel fell to the ground with a loud clang. Steve stared in disbelief- unable to comprehend what he had just witnessed. But then he refocused and saw his grandfather, doubled over near the smoldering zombie. Every part of Steve's body was in panic mode. Before he knew it he was bolting for his grandfather, he couldn't be dying. Steve sent a hurried prayer to Notch that his grandfather was okay.

"Grandfather!" Steve yelled as he ran across the mine towards him. "Grandfather, are you okay?"

Thankfully his worst fears were not confirmed, his grandfather wasn't dead. Horace was panting. His arms rested on the pickaxe, which was stained black and red from the zombie's blood. Several moments passed, he did not look at Steve. Steve called his name several more times and his grandfather seemed to finally awaken, as if from the dead. His grandfather looked tired, and his beard was more haggard than it had been minutes before. Horace's skin was pale, far different than its usual ruddy color; it gave him a wispy appearance. The old man was in shock to some degree, not to Steve's surprise- he was shocked and scared too.

"Steve…" his grandfather started. "I'm glad you're alive."

"Yeah I'm glad I'm alive too- you're not hurt either? Grandfather?" Steve asked, reaching out towards him.

"No- no it would have to take a bit more than that to take me out. Although it did give me quite a fright." Horace admitted.

"It-it scared me too…" Steve said "There aren't more of them are there?" he asked, glancing around him in worry. He hadn't even seen the zombie approach them. Even at that very moment there could be two or even three more lurking in the mine. Horace coughed,

"No- well perhaps but they are no threat." Horace coughed again.

"No threat?! No threat? How do you even know that?" Steve asked incredulously. In spite of himself he felt his anger rising. "That almost killed you, and it almost took me out as well!"

"My dear boy, I am perfectly aware of that since it was I who saved you! However I really must ask you to calm down. Your questions are good and it only makes sense that you would want to make sense of the situation- as do I. Now-" Horace paused holding up his hand "I will try to explain… to the best of my knowledge. But please let an old man rest first." Horace replied, coughing heavily before wiping his brow.

"Well for starters was that thing?" Steve interjected, glancing at the pile of ashes next to the battered shovel.

Horace glanced at him, and pulled a small pink vial from his pocket and drank it in one gulp. "Ahh, that's better!" he said, as some of the color returned to his face. He pocketed the bottle and glanced back at Steve. "Now as to your question- that thing you saw is a zombie Steven. It is a foul creature, an undead human. I believe you know a bit about giant spiders?"

"Yeah." Steve replied. His grandfather had once told him of giant mythical spiders known as Arachnomorphs that had infested the lands ages ago. Those stories made Steve very glad that he had not been born at a time when those things were around.

"Good now be quiet and allow me to continue." Horace said firmly. Steve sat down next to his grandfather as the old man launched into his tale,

"Yes well, a long time ago…before there were records or even an established civilization the world was very different Steve- the land was infested with creatures so foul historians fear to mention them in the old texts." Horace paused and took a deep breath before continuing "It is said that the word was formed by three gods, Notch who we worship, Jeb, and a third named Baez'aamon. Now as you know Notch created the Sun, the Sky, the Moon, the seas, the trees and humans. We were long considered his prized creation. His disciple Jeb gave us the gift of fire, how to make tools, and our intelligence. Jeb also created many of the animals. You know this part of the legend Steve." Steve nodded.

"Yeah, this is about the twentieth time you've told it to me."

"Yes, but there is a much larger part you haven't heard before so listen closely."

"Does it have to do with Baez'aamon?" Steve asked.

"Ah! Yes, very good Steven very good. You're completely right. It is about Baez'aamon. Now for the sake of simplicity and because I don't want to have to say his full name a hundred times we will call him Baez. Baez was a tricky fellow; he was different than either Jeb or Notch. While Jeb and Notch rejoiced in each other's creations Baez did not. It made him jealous to see the greatness of Jeb's and Notch's creations. You see Steve, Baez created darker things. Baez created the Netherworld, many of the monsters in it, and obsidian. However long before he created the monsters Baez developed a strong hatred of humans. Humans rejected Baez and outpoured their love to Notch and Jeb for the gifts they had given them. So perhaps you could say that Baez hated humans out of jealously- although I suspect there was more to it than that. Over many years his hatred of our kind grew much like a tumor. One day Notch offered a chance to Baez by creating the first Nether portal. Naturally Baez eagerly accepted this opportunity to show off his creations and finally receive the kindness of Notch and Jeb's cherished humans. However what Baez didn't know was that Notch had planned to dispose of him from the start. The Nether was an evil place Steve, Notch sensed Baez's disguised hatred and felt pressed to do something about it. Notch decided to imprison Baez in his own realm. When Baez learned of this- and it was not for some time mind you, he withdrew himself into the farthest corner of the Nether and worked on the creation of an army to exterminate Notch's precious creations and to take over the overworld.

"Baez had withdrawn for ten full years as legend tells us, and his revenge was terrible. He attacked the human settlers with waves of pigmen, a cross between a zombie-fied man and a pig. Baez had created other monstrosities, enormous flying wraiths known as Ghasts who could shoot blazing fire out of their mouths. He also created Blazes, or fire wraiths that were similar in nature to Ghasts and strange cub-like creatures nearly twenty feet high that spewed lava everywhere they went. As legend tells us Steve, thousands of people died and the world was scorched with red flame. However Baez had a problem, many of his creations depended on the environment of the Nether- where they had been created for life. Many of his monstrosities died soon after entering the over world and this made him furious. Baez then extended his influence into the over world, creating monstrosities there like giant man eating spiders, skeletons and creepers- things that could survive for long periods in the over world. Many of the humans he killed were turned into zombies, and could turn anyone into a zombie by a single bite. It is also said…" Horace continued in a darker tone "That Baez created deep within his fortress another thing, monster or man it is not known but the thing was known once as 'White Eyes'. White Eyes was the crown of his many dark creations; it was powerful, fast, and very deadly. As legend tells us Baez did not hesitate to use his useful new puppet to capture Jeb. Baez then held Jeb in the Nether, and took his revenge by doing unspeakable things to him.

"When Notch learned of his he was furious but could not kill Baez without risking harm to Jeb- a thing he desperately wanted to avoid. As a result Notch did what he set out to do- he sealed Baez in the Nether but was also forced to seal Jeb in with him. Notch wept for a time over the loss of Jeb but then proceeded to exterminate Baez's creations on the surface. For a long time it was assumed that they had been destroyed, and humanity rebuilt and created the great cities and nations that exist today." Horace sighed and slumped on the boulder. "But it appears that it was not the case…"

"The zombie- why did it catch fire like that?" Steve asked, feeling entirely unsatisfied by this mythological explanation.

"The curse of Notch upon the creatures of Baez. The sunlight is purifying." He said gesturing to the blazing sun with his palm "There is no sunlight in the Nether- or that is what the legends tell us. And naturally, that is where the most fiendish of Baez's creations live. The light is thus a defense against the creations of Baez."

"Hang on," Steve paused "The zombies – they couldn't have all been killed or there wouldn't be any more would there? I mean, if they only reproduce by biting living people then they've been here all this time!" he exclaimed.

"That Steve, we do not know."

"THERE COULD BE HUNDREDS OF THESE THINGS OUT THERE!" he yelled.

"It's understandable for you to be angry Steve-"

"Yeah well I am okay?" Steve ran a hand through his hair "Where could it have come from? I mean I was just mining right there-" he gestured to the mined out spot near the corpse "and I got attacked by a zombie that wants to eat me! And before that I had this weird vision about some Etihw Seye!"

"I don't know Steven. Like I said I thought these…creatures were exterminated a long time ago, thousands of years ago."

"Well that's very helpful." Steve said sarcastically. Horace sighed and tugged at his beard. "So we're not in any danger because they'll just burn up in the sunlight like that zombie did."

"Precisely…as far as I know that is the case…" Horace said affirmatively. His grandfather was sitting in what seemed to be deep thought. He was staring at the corpse of the zombie. The smell of burned flesh rose from the thing's remains.

"Grandfather? Shouldn't we tell someone about the zombie?" Steve asked. His grandfather did not respond for several seconds.

"Yes, not that it would do any good boy…" Horace growled "no one would believe me or you for that matter. Imagine if I had seen a horde of zombies as opposed to just one – and told everyone about it. People would think I'd have lost my mind! I'd be sent to a nut farm before they'd believe a word that came out of my mouth. Think about it Steven. Everyone including me thought these fiends were destroyed thousands of years ago and now we've just seen one. No one would look at me with a straight face if I told them about our encounter with the zombie."

Steve sighed in anguish "You have a point but – it's real! There must be someone who can believe you. Or who can see it for themselves!"

"There is no one Steve. You must understand this. Perhaps we could bring people out here but it would make no difference. There may have only been one zombie – the one you witnessed- but not any others and then we'll both end up looking like fools." Horace sighed deeply and pulled out another loaf of bread, tore it in half and handed one to Steve. Steve took the half-loaf, gave thanks and ate it.

"So what do we do?" he asked with irritation "Do nothing? Say nothing about a man-eating zombie that tried to bludgeon me with a shovel? People should know!"

"I'm not saying we should say nothing Steven. There is a great distinction between saying that a warning would be useless and not actually warning anyone. Of course we will warn them. It would be a travesty not to if in fact, the villagers of the town are in mortal danger. We will talk to Nate about it, and the mayor." Horace explained, taking a bite out of his bread. "The mayor should at least be warned. In fact telling Muriel about it might not be a bad idea either…"

"Maybe we could go looking for others?"

"Steven, you really ought to understand by now that you cannot find something when you do not know where to look for it. I've told you this before and you would do well to remember it."

"Yes grandfather." Steve grumbled. His grandfather was right, and it was sickening to him. He really didn't have any idea where they could be coming from, or even if it was more than one zombie. Steve felt even more sickened by the fact that it was almost futile to warn the mayor. The mayor was elected by a council of six many of who were old and very opinionated and had strong control of everything the mayor did. And none of the oldsters on the council would be likely to take any action, as even if the mayor believed them the council certainly wouldn't.

Steve looked warily across the strip mine, unable to shake the feeling that there were hundreds of zombies in there. Steve hated to see his worst fears about the mines confirmed.

"Are we still getting that pickaxe?" Steve asked.

"Of course." Horace said "Although after this…we may have to put your mining on hold for a little while."

"Yeah the 'nothing in the mines can hurt you' thing is a bit of a past saying isn't it?" Steve asked sarcastically.

"I don't know…" Horace replied "I wish I did Steve I really wish I did…now it is noon." He said observing the sun's position high up in the sky. "We ought to get back to town. I've got a grocery list longer than the dinner table and you need a pickaxe."

"What about old moany?" Steve asked, gesturing to the pile of ashes that used to be the zombie.

"As we have discussed the mayor, Muriel and Nate will be told." Horace said in such a way that indicated that the discussion was at an end.

With that Steve and his grandfather made their way out of the strip mine. Horace led the way along a gravel trail not far from where Steve had fallen, that led to a pleasant grassy field. The field bristled with dewdrops from last-night's rainfall. It was a deceptively calm scene. Steve was still much shaken from his encounter with the zombie. Steve had only heard of the creatures a few times but he had in no way, been prepared for that up close and personal experience with it.

The whole experience unnerved Steve even more because he did not know how to fight. He knew how to punch; he had once punched a bully so hard he knocked him out for several minutes. But he had never used a sword, and that was what worried him the most. What if there were more zombies? How could he fight them off? And most importantly of all where had the thing come from? Who was the poor soul that had been bitten and transformed into such a horrid creature? And where had the zombie that had bit that person came from? Horace had explained that the monsters were creations of an ancient demon- Baez'aamon but had left to question why they had come back after thousands of years.

Steve balled his fists in anger at all of these unknowns. What was worse was that Horace was right; no one was likely to believe their encounter with the zombie. Steve didn't think that he would believe it either if he was a villager and monsters had been a thing of myth for thousands of years.

They didn't talk for the entirety of their journey back to the village. Steve thought for a moment on everything that had happened that morning, he had seen a vision of something called Etihw Seye, fainted, and nearly got killed by a zombie. Did that all mean something? Horace had mentioned something about a creature called 'White Eyes' what did that mean? Steve had seen hundreds of pairs of white eyes staring at him in his vision. And then there was that name Etihw Seye. Etihw Seye…Steve repeated the name again and again in his head. Was there a connection? He thought to himself. And then it dawned on him like the sun's rays on a snowy hillside. Etihw Seye was 'White Eyes' spelled backwards.

"Etihw Seye…White Eyes…" Steve said softly. It all added up, the pairs of glowing white eyes in his vision, the voices chanting Etihw Seye, and the 'White Eyes' Horace had told him about. Besides it would explain why Nate's face had darkened when he mentioned Etihw Seye. But then there was another question, why was it even spelt backwards in the first place? Was there something to that? Steve sighed, he felt like he had been played for a fool.

"Steve?" his grandfather's grumpy voice called. Steve shook his head and looked up at his grandfather and shot him a quizzical look. "You stopped moving. Is something the matter?" Horace asked.

"Yeah- I just realized something really important. Grandfather I just figured something out- it's really important." Steve said excitedly.

"You did? Then get a move on and we'll talk about it." Horace replied. Steve hurried forwards and launched into his discovery.

"Grandfather, you remember a few minutes ago how you were talking about 'White Eyes' and all that mythology stuff?"

"Yes, although it is legend and assumed to be true Steven." Horace corrected him.

"Er- right." Steve said "I just realized – something really important-"

"Then out with it boy." Horace said impatiently, his face turning a ruddy color "I haven't got all day to play the ruddy pronoun game." Steve rolled his eyes and continued,

"Etihw Seye is 'White Eyes' spelled backwards." Steve explained "I just figured it out. It explains why the voices- in my vision- were chanting it. Grandfather it could be connected to the 'White Eyes' in that legend." Horace looked at him thoughtfully for several moments. Then a spark of amusement touched his ruddy cheeks.

"Very good Steven! Very good!" he chortled "Yes it is White Eyes spelled backwards and I figured it shortly after you told me. As for whether or not Etihw Seye is connected with White Eyes in the legends I do not know. But I must say something for your imagination boy- a hundred pairs of white eyes…burn me…"

"But it has to be! It would explain everything!" Steve exclaimed. "The zombie, the eerie chill I got when I heard the voices." Horace sighed patiently.

"It's all happened on the same day grandfather! It can't just be a coincidence that this Etihw Seye or White Eyes shows up, we get attacked by an undead and then you tell me of a White Eyes in the legend! Also, why didn't you tell me it was White Eyes spelled backwards when you figured it out earlier?" Steve demanded angrily.

"Steve I must remind you not to shout at me…"Horace said coldly "I thought you would have figured out the connection by yourself and regardless I did not deem it important to tell you. Now," he raised a pudgy finger – signaling that he was about to go off into another long winded lecture "indeed, these events are most unusual. Do you think the sight of the zombie didn't shock me as much as it did you? Of course it did, but there isn't any rational explanation for it is there boy? In fact there's no explanation for it at all. All I know about what is going on is from the legend of Baez'aamon and even that is questionable grounds to base a theory on." Steve's frustration only grew at his grandfather's words.

"But…it can't just be coincidence…it can't!" he growled.

"Steve! Our manners!"

"I'm sorry grandfather." Steve said bowing his head. He was frustrated but his grandfather was right, yelling was not going to help matters and aside from that he did deserve Steve's respect.

"I do not believe these happenings are mere coincidence. I am not challenging your point there Steven. But White Eyes is a legend and the very fact that he exists is unknown and debatable." Steve opened his mouth in protest but Horace continued "It is a great coincidence that you received a vision about 'White Eyes' and heard the tale of him and encountered a zombie all in one day. Regardless Steven, however great the connection, it does not necessarily prove causation." Steve hadn't heard that one before.

"Is that another mantra of yours?" Steve asked

"Perhaps." Horace said brightening slightly "It has a nice ring to it doesn't it? By the way how did you find your first foray into mining?"

Steve was almost floored by his grandfather's brusqueness. One moment they were talking about the world being in potential peril and the next they were talking about something as trivial as his work potential.

"It was…hmm let's see," Steve said sarcastically, putting on his best thoughtful expression "not too good cause I almost died."

"I do not suffer from short term memory loss Steven I am aware of what almost happened to you and I would prefer to forget it although I cannot…" Horace said raising the bloodied pickaxe. The blood had now dried on the stone leaving a horrible black and red stain on its tip. "In fact, come to think of it…it might be a better idea if this was kept under wraps for a little while, don't want people getting the wrong ideas after all." Horace said, stopping for a moment and pulling out a wool cloth which he tightly wrapped around the edge of the pickaxe. "I merely posed the question to see if mining suited you well or poorly regardless of our situation at the moment."

"It-It was okay. I was getting a feel for it after a few blocks." Steve admitted. Horace beamed, as he always did when Steve did something good, or took a fancy to one of the jobs he had cut out for him.

"Excellent, excellent. That's good to hear Steven. Perhaps if things return to normal by tomorrow…we'll have a chance to really get your training started!" Steve was not excited by this information but managed a dim smile in return.

Steve had been so immersed in their conversation that he hadn't noticed the outline of farm ahead of them growing steadily larger. It was Terrance's farm. Steve was able to tell this by the custom weathervane atop the roof of Terrance's house, which was in the distinctive shape of a pig. The farm itself extended a kilometer or so in every direction by Steve's reckoning and was walled off around the perimeter by sections of short wooden fencing – to keep out the vagabonds Horace had once told him.

"'Ey Horace! Good to 'ee you again!" a friendly voice croaked. That voice belonged to Terrance himself who apparently had noticed their approach and had come out to meet them.

"And a good morning to you too Terrance!" Horace boomed. Terrance gave him a friendly wave. "And how is the farm coming?"

"Right poorly Horace, right poorly. Aye…one of my sows died last night…poor girl couldn't do anythin' for 'er. Called the medicine man, ol' Wickfield but he couldn't do a thing." Terrance said sadly, wiping his motley brown hair with a free hand. His expression had gone from pleased to slightly depressed in an instant. It was always hard for any farmer when their livestock died- normally it wasn't their fault.

"I'm very sorry to hear that Terrance." Horace said sympathetically. "We both feel for your loss. I hope it has not hurt your farm too badly?"

"No, no it hasn't. She was an old lass, it 'twas her time I reckon." Terrance said. His voice was mournful. The farmer had undoubtedly felt the loss of his livestock very deeply.

"I'm sorry to hear it Terrance. How are the children keeping?" Horace asked politely.

"I've got them working." Terrance said offering a toothy grin. "How about yeh Steve? Your grandfather been putting yeh to work a lot lately?"

"Uh I guess you could say that." Steve muttered. Terrance looked at him for a moment,

"Somethin wrong? Feelin' a bit under the weather eh?" he asked looking at Steve.

"It's nothing…" Steve mumbled, scratching his head. His mind was still on his encounter with the zombie.

"He's been mining. I took him out just a little earlier, over at the strip mine that way." Horace said gesturing off into the distance.

"That so?" Terrance said with genuine interest "Good work mining. But not as good as farming!" he laughed. Steve was very inclined to agree with him on that point.

"Yes well we must be off Terrance. Things to do, to buy, you know."

"Aye Horace. Well have a good day eh? And good luck with the mining Steve!"

"Thanks, I'll need it!" Steve replied, forcing a smile. Terrance chuckled.

"Ah well, then I 'ope it goes a bit better for yeh."

"Yes well we really must be off." Horace replied. "Good day to you Terrance!" Terrance waved a goodbye and trudged back to the farmhouse.

"You couldn't have at least warned him?" Steve hissed once they were out of earshot.

"No. He wouldn't believe me." Horace said firmly "Besides, that poor man doesn't need any more trouble on his mind than he's already got. He says his children are fine but I know for a fact that his daughter is sick with colic."

"Oh," Steve said "is she okay?"

"She's fine. You even had colic as a little kid Steven. You were a handful…" Horace murmured.

Steve smiled a little at this. He had been an active child. When he was three he farted at an almost indecent frequency and when he was seven he had a habit of jumping on the bed. Steve couldn't focus on anything back then – one minute he would be working on one of his grandfather's projects and the next he would be drawing unflattering portraits of Horace on the walls. Then Steve turned fourteen, the age when he was supposed to be a man and he was as immature as ever. Horace had finally managed to straighten Steve out by a rigorous regimen of work, exercise…and more work.

Several minutes later they were at the familiar doorstep of the Darton blacksmith. Bad memories resurfaced in Steve's mind every time he looked at the place. The smithy's shop was drab building made of dirt, mud and cobblestone. It looked very medieval and every bit as foreboding as Steve remembered it. The shop had a low hanging stone roof, exactly one window, which was so filthy it was impossible to see anything through it- and a red brick chimney.

Horace coughed and walked up to the door, rapping on it three times in quick succession. Then he stepped back and waited several moments. No one appeared at the door, there wasn't even a sound save for the delighted squeals of several children playing down the street.

"Maybe he didn't hear…" Horace muttered, rapping on the door even louder than before.

"Uh well if he's not there-" Steve started but his hopes were dashed as a muffled voice came from the smithy. Steve couldn't hear what the voice was saying but it was definitely the blacksmith's and it sounded very angry. Suddenly the door burst open and grizzled figure of the blacksmith appeared, a scowl on his face and several burns on his arms.

"What in the name of Notch's shiny, bald, bloody fat head do you think- oh it's you." He growled, glaring at the pair. The blacksmith was a man of middling height, was muscular and evenly built with a round head. He had beady eyes and a great mane of grizzled dark brown hair which was burnt at several ends. The blacksmith was exactly as Steve remembered him except his hair was a little grayer and he looked a little meaner. Some people never changed Steve thought.

"And a good morning to you Robert." Horace said cordially.

"It's Bob." The blacksmith grunted. "What do you want? I'm busy."

"An iron pickaxe."

"An iron pickaxe he says…" Bob grumbled "Alright, alright. Mining are we Steven?"

"Yeah." Steve replied, a little shakily. Bob smirked.

"So that's what you've got him up too this time Horace. Well, I hope he turns out to be a better miner than a blacksmith…" Steve felt the blood rush to his cheeks at this remark. He opened his mouth in retort but couldn't articulate a response. Bob ignored Steve stepped back towards the interior of his shop "Don't worry Horace; I've got a few picks in stock. I've run a little low on iron since the mining activity's died down so it will cost you a bit extra…"

"That's fine." Horace replied as the door slammed shut and the blacksmith disappeared inside the dark of the smithy. They waited for several moments in silence before Bob reappeared, an gleaming iron pickaxe in hand.

"This what you want?" he asked gruffly. Horace peered at it for a moment,

"Yes! Yes this is perfect. How much for it Bob?" he asked enthusiastically.

"Seven gold Horace."

"Seven gold! Bob, surely you can go a bit lower for that? Steve is only learning how to mine- maybe you have something cheaper?" Horace asked weakly. The blacksmith's face curved into a small smile.

"Good point Horace…perhaps you'd like the cheapest pickaxe? Accidents happen after all especially in…unskilled hands." He said, eying Steve maliciously.

"He will learn, in time." Horace said defensively "Do you have one for perhaps four or five gold?"

"Yes." Bob grunted as he headed back into the smithy. A minute or two later he reappeared with another iron pick. This one was not unlike the first one except it looked older and had a tarnished look about it.

"Will this do for you Horace?"

"How much for this one Bob?" Horace asked.

"This one's five gold." Horace sighed and laid the stone pick beside the wall and began to fish through his pockets for the required gold. After several moments of jingling and low cursing Horace removed five gleaming gold ingots and shoved them into Bob's outstretched palm.

"There you are Bob. Thank you very much."

"Thank you Horace." Bob replied, handing him the pickaxe. Horace took it, and handed the other one to Steve. Steve grabbed the handle tightly while keeping one hand on the wrap, the last thing he needed was to have the blacksmith get the wrong idea.

"I hope you're keeping a close eye on your grandson Horace." Bob said gruffly.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Horace asked indignantly.

"Well by the look of your pickaxe it seems he's been mishandling your tools. Burn me if I ever saw a tool more beat up than that."

"No he has not. It has simply mined one too many blocks Bob. And I'll thank you to remember your manners. It is a family heirloom!"

"Yes well perhaps you want me to fix it for you?" Bob offered.

"No thank you, but the offer is appreciated."

"Will that be all then?" Bob asked, brushing off his pants "I had some important work I was getting too before I was disturbed."

"No that will be all." Horace said brusquely "Farewell Robert."

The blacksmith grunted in response and looked at Steve for a moment. Steve glared back at him. Bob raised an eyebrow before turning away and disappearing back into the smithy, his immense mane of hair trailing behind hm. Every time Steve visited the smithy it was always a reminder of his failures. Bob never seemed to forget Steve's disastrous tenure as his apprentice and always gave him little reminders about it every single time he visited the smithy. The blacksmith was a man of very limited patience and a very unpleasant personality. Steve snorted, first he got attacked by a zombie and then insulted by the blacksmith, the day was not working out in his favor one bit.

Steve followed Horace through the cobblestone streets of Darton. The children that had been playing in the streets had disappeared. The sun beamed down upon them, offering waves of warmth to combat the slightly chilly spring breeze.

"I'm proud of the way you handled yourself back there Steven. I know how you had it when you were Bob's apprentice." Horace said.

"Uh right." Steve replied "Well I've gotten used to it by now."

"Well I want you to remember that Steve. Never be the first to offer the low blow- even if you're tempted." Horace said with a small smile.

"It doesn't bother me a whole lot." Steve said "That was nothing compared to getting attacked by a zombie." Horace froze up at this,  
"Keep your voice _down_. Good lord boy do you want half the town to think you're crazy?" Steve glanced around him,

"There's no one around us, nobody heard. Don't worry I'm pretty sane."

"Well at least you're seeing the humor in it…" Horace grumbled "Ah! Good afternoon Everard!"

"Hello Horace." a tall thin man replied from a nearby building, he had been looking at them. Everard was the local tailor and he was readjusting his sign in front of his shop. Steve had gone to him many times before to have his clothes enlarged or to be fitted for new ones. Steve did not have very fond memories of the place. When he was thirteen he had a massive growth spurt where he had taken some fourteen trips to the tailor because he kept growing out of all his current clothes.

"Just don't mention it right now." Horace said lowly.

"Don't mention what?" Steve asked.

"The…you know the thing." Horace said frustratedly.

"Oh the zombie?" Steve said somewhat loudly. Horace nearly jumped at this. He paused briefly, whirling around checking to see if anyone heard before he swore and turned back to Steve.

"Yes! That! Just keep quiet about it in public!" Steve almost smiled at this. Sometimes, his grandfather's reactions were completely priceless.

They continued down the road to a bland colored building with a thatched roof and an old wooden porch out in front of it. It was the butcher's shop, and coincidentally also his house. As Steve approached the place the smell of raw meat became overpowering and Steve had to hold his breath for several seconds before he managed to adapt to it. In past trips he had wondered whether or not the butcher had a muted sense of smell after living next to piles of fresh and rotted meat for so long.

Horace led the way onto the porch and rapped lightly on the door. Next to the door was what appeared to be a display rack behind a case of glass. Steve could see pork chops and what appeared to be disembodied pigs feet on the polished stone surface.

"Biggins? Biggins are you in there?" Horace asked, knocking on the door with one hand and covering his nose with the other. Suddenly a large face appeared behind the glass, followed by a click and the whole panel suddenly disappeared. Steve nearly fell over as an even more powerful blast of stale meat overwhelmed his senses.

"Hello Horace! And Steve! Good to see you." the man said with a wide smile. He was a young man with a round, bald head. He had beady eyes and was very large. The man ironically reminded him of a unusually large pig. Steve had a faint memory of him; the man was the Butcher's assistant, Butch.

"Where's Biggins?" Horace asked in a muffled voice. He had not taken the handkerchief from his nose.

"Out." Butch shrugged "Said he'd be back by nightfall. Apparently he had a bit of business to attend too- something regarding a sow…"

"Is that Terrance's?" Steve asked, remembering the old farmer and how he had told them about the death of his pig.

"As a matter of fact it would be. Yes he only about half an hour ago, 'fraid you just missed him." Butch explained "Do you need his help or are you buying?"

"Buying." Horace replied. "I need two pork-chops, a bit of bacon and five ham. And – er- please wrap them very heavily if you don't mind."

"Right you are Horace." Butch replied, momentarily disappearing under the counter. He seemed to not have taken notice that both Steve and Horace were holding their shirts up to their noses. Not having a sense of smell must be a pre-requisite for being a butcher Steve thought to himself.

"Alright, let's see two pork, here's three bacon and five ham. That'll be one silver Horace." Butch said cheerfully, as he quickly wrapped up the meat in some wrapping paper and set them on the counter. "By the way Horace, you got a cold or something? You've been holding that tissue up to your nose the whole time."

"Oh this? Yes a bit of a cold, but it's gotten a bit better lately." Horace lied.

"Ah."

Horace bent over and scrutinized the packaged meat for a moment as if to check to see if they were heavily wrapped as requested. After a moment he gave a brief nod and handed Butch a single silver piece. With a quick motion Horace stuffed the meat into his pouch and bit Butch goodbye.

"Thanks." Steve called offering a small wave.

"Thank you!" Butch called as he disappeared behind the glass.

Once they were a suitable distance from the shop Horace removed his handkerchief and Steve lowered the shirt from his nose. Thankful to be away from the odor of the butcher's he gladly breathed in the fresh clean air. Horace chuckled at this,

"I really wish they'd give that place a good cleaning don't you?"

"Definitely!" Steve said. He hadn't been there in a while but after their visit he was really appreciating the clean air outside the place. "It must get really bad when it's windy." Horace smiled,

"In that case I'd hope I was downwind of it!"

"Or a few miles away." Steve added.

"That too!" Horace said with a laugh. "Now let's see…what was that inn Nate said he was staying at? The Inn of the White Dragon? No that's not the one…"  
"Lonely Dragon." Steve interjected.

"Yes that's the one. Thank you Steve. Right…" Horace paused checking his watch "What's the time.." he muttered, squinting at the thing "Should be around four…"

"What?" Steve asked.

"Steve I want you to take this meat back to the house, and put it in the freezer. I have some business to attend to."

"Oh, alright then. Do you want me to come back?"

"No, I think it'd be better not to risk it." Horace said with a light smile "You know because of the-"

"Zombies." Steve said flatly.

"Shh!" Horace said angrily, putting a finger up to his lips "Don't you remember anything? Not so loudly boy for Notches sake!"

"Alright then _zombies_." Steve said in a slightly lower octave. Horace glared at Steve and handed him the meat. Steve recoiled slightly from the bad smell of the raw food.

"Bring it to the house and store it otherwise it'll go bad and I'll have to make another trip. Don't leave the house once you reach it. Is that understood?"

"Sure. Do you think there's more out there though?" Steve asked largely out of his grandfather's sudden concern.

"I doubt it Steven. In either case take care of yourself. I know you know how to do that but…just don't be a fool." He grumbled.

"I won't." Steve said, with a weak smile as he held the food under one arm and the pick in the other. "When are you getting back?"

"In three hours Steven or at least before nightfall." Horace said, glancing around him warily to make sure no one could hear what he was saying. "In fact you'd better give me that pickaxe." He said gesturing to the stone relic Steve was holding.

"Here." Steve said, handing him the pick. He was glad to get the thing off his shoulder at least. But his happiness at this vanished once Horace handed him the iron one which Steve quickly found was every bit as heavy as the stone pick.

"I thought you said these things were lighter than stone ones!" Steve exclaimed.

"I didn't say how much." Horace said with a veiled smile. "Now go on, there's some business I have to attend to."

"Well, you stay okay too grandfather." Steve said. Horace smiled and clapped Steve on the shoulder.

"You'd better get going boy." He said as he turned and walked away. Steve watched his grandfather for a few minutes before he turned and walked down the cobblestone road towards his home.

For the first time since he was a little kid Steve felt afraid of some mysterious force. There was something Steve reasoned that was out there, there was a reason for that strange vision, and something must have triggered that zombie. Steve walked down the trail that led through the sparse woods towards his house. The wind blew harder and the light a little dimmer. The woods had rarely looked so intimidating to Steve.

"Nothing will happen to you…you're fine. Just keep walking. Keep walking." Steve repeated to himself as he gradually left the outskirts of Darton. As he entered the woods he began to hum an old tune his grandfather had taught him and began the short journey home.

Unknown to Steve, something was watching him as he entered the forest. It was a form, without shape, a thing without a face. It had lurked in the hidden places of the world for many years and now it was free. It had waited so long for this opportunity, this moment to show its power and now it was here, with this weak willed mortal. There was a low whistle, the spring breeze blew harder, and the light gradually faded from the forest. The thing could feel the human's heartbeat increasing, his fear mounting. Yes, the being thought, now it was the time to strike.

**So they finally figure out who Etihw Seye is. But who was that watching them from the forest? What will happen to Steve? Wait until Chapter 3 to find out.**

**Until then read and review!**


	3. Chapter 3 The Night Attack

**Chapter 3 The Night Attack **

**Hey what's up guys. I am back from testing and am extremely proud to be able to release another chapter of White Eyes! I got a little extra time on Sunday to hammer out a good 6,500 words on this chapter so here we are. **

**Also as a side note- these chapters will be edited and likely expanded a little over the next few weeks since I don't want my unedited writing out there for any new readers to see!**

**Chapters 3-6 are what I like to call the 'Intro Arc' where we will begin to explore the backstory a bit and where a lot of stuff that sets up the next 10 chapters.**

**Read, review and enjoy! **

Steve hurried along the wooded trail as fast as he could manage. He cursed the hefty pickaxe that was slowing him down and the packaged pork that was making him nauseous. The wind rushed through his hair and plastered his shirt against his skin. He was having trouble moving his legs against the wind. Steve desperately hoped that the wind wouldn't knock him down as he gripped the pork a little tighter and struggled ahead.

Steve had no idea why the wind was blowing so hard, after all the air had been virtually still just a few moments earlier. Steve glanced around him, at least on the plus side it wasn't getting any darker.

"Well at least I'm not having another vision." He said. There was no sign of the 'white eyes' that had so frightened him back in the cart. But what was it then? Why was the wind blowing so hard? Steve was tempted to just go to the rational explanation that the weather was changing and that a storm front was probably approaching. However the day's events had made him more superstitious. Not to mention the fact that Steve's nerves were still shattered by his encounter with the undead back at the strip mine.

Steve struggled ahead along the dirt path. Suddenly a cloud of dust blew up and into his face obscuring his vision. Steve coughed and nearly dropped his items to rub his eyes. Steve grumbled for a moment and stopped, set the pick and the food down and wiped the dust out of his eyes. However, there was a sudden gust of wind and Steve felt a package dully bounce against his leg and crash off into the distance. Steve whirled around just in time to notice that a package of the pork had been blown away into the woods and some of the other packaged meat threatened to do the same. Steve groaned and picked up the meat he had left, he couldn't go get the runaway pork without risking the loss of the rest.

Steve glanced behind him for a moment. There was a strange white light following him. Steve stared at it for a moment before taking a step back. The thing seemed to get closer, it was following him, heedless to the power of the wind that would have blown it back had it been a solid. The thing unnerved Steve, finally losing his nerve he broke and ran – whatever the thing was he wanted no part of it. But his reaction wasn't fast enough.

Suddenly Steve felt a low wind rush through him. He gasped and doubled over as it passed. He felt like he had been touched by something exceedingly cold. It seemed to suck the life out of him. Then he watched with a mixture of awe and fear as the shining white orb appeared from inside his chest cavity. Steve cried out in pain as the thing exited his body. He felt like he was being torn apart from the inside. It was a sensation that he had never before experienced. Steve's insides were on fire, his limbs had been rendered useless and his mind was like jelly- he had never felt so helpless or in so much pain. But like that, it was over, the orb had finally made its exit and slowly floated away from him.

"Aaaah!" he cried, clutching at his chest. He felt smaller somehow. What he had just experienced was like nothing Steve had experienced before. He felt like a hand had reached into his chest and pulled something out of it- something of great value.

Steve felt exceedingly tired, as if he had done a full day's work in the garden or the like. He couldn't imagine why but he felt slower somehow after that last blast of wind. Steve slowly looked up; everything had gone quiet. Steve didn't even feel the wind blowing against his body anymore.

Steve lay on the ground for a full minute, his chest heaving. His heart was pounding against his chest. His heart was beating so loudly that Steve could hear every beat. Sweat dripped from his forehead, it was as if Steve had just run a ten kilometer race. Steve slowly looked around the woodlands, fully expecting a zombie or some other horrible creature to come out and finish him off. He watched and waited, nothing was forthcoming.

Steve slowly sat up. His nerves were shot. His chest hurt. His arms hurt. His head hurt. His mind was fuzzy. Fear consumed him. Steve looked at his hands; they were shaking even though he wasn't moving them. What was going on? Steve thought fearfully. What was that white light? Why had he felt so much pain? The endless questions rebounded over and over in his mind. It was all a mess. Yesterday life was normal, and today he had almost been killed twice once by an undead and now by some ball of white light.

Steve was afraid to move, he felt like something was watching him in the woods. Slowly Steve stood up and grabbed the iron pick his grandfather had bought for him. If anything was going to attack him, he would fight it just as his grandfather had fought the zombie.

"A-a-anyone there?" he asked nervously, glancing around at the surrounding woodlands. There was no response. There wasn't a breeze or any hint of anything malicious. This soothed Steve's nerves slightly. Steve took a deep breath and slowly began to collect himself.

Suddenly a wave of nausea overcame him. Steve felt sick to his stomach. His nerves were tingling and his stomach was churning. Steve abruptly dropped the pickaxe and put a hand to his mouth. He was going to be sick. Steve stumbled over towards a nearby bush and heaved three times. He stopped and panted for several moments before throwing a stray branch over the disgusting spectacle and trekked back and picked up his items.

But as he walked back to his spot he heard a loud crackling sound in the woods ahead of him. Steve nearly jumped out of his shoes at this and ran for his pickaxe. Was it another zombie? Right as Steve put his fingers around the handle a familiar face appeared nearby with a wide smile on his face.

"Hey." The man said. He was walking towards him now. "You okay?" he asked, cocking his head at Steve. Steve stared at him for a moment. The man was wearing thoroughly beat up clothes of brown and blue, a hat of messy black hair obscured part of his face and he had an iron axe strapped to his back. It was his old friend, Nick. The sight of his friend recalled something that Horace had told Steve earlier- that any zombie would burn to death in the daytime.

"I- what do you want?" Steve demanded, holding the pickaxe in a defensive posture. Nick rolled his eyes at this.

"What do you think I'm doing here smart one? I just got back from cutting wood in that forest. Today I get half the day off- boss was in an extra good mood apparently. Really, what are you doing here? Did you go into town or something?"

Steve stared at him for a full minute, holding the pick at Nick's chest. It took several moments for him to calm down and lower the pickaxe.

"Uh – yeah me and grandfather, we um- yeah we did some mining near Darton. He sent me back here to store some stuff we bought."

"Oh you mean this?" Nick asked, bending over and picking one of the wrapped parcels of pork. "You should take better care of this. Smells fresh."

"I-I was." Steve replied.

"Well duh." Nick replied "Alright then, what's the problem? Obviously something's bothering you. You look pale as ashes, you've got sick on your chin, not to mention the fact that you're stuttering like a two year old."

"R-really?" Steve asked, picking up a meat parcel before Nick stopped him.

"Yeah you do. What's wrong?"

"I- it's hard to explain…" Steve admitted.

"You're going home right?"

"Yeah."

"I'm coming with you." Nick replied.  
"Thanks." Steve said gratefully.

"Not at all, you look like you're scared out of your mind. Whatever it was it must've been pretty spooky."

"Y-you could say that again." Steve replied as Nick took the rest of the meat, put some of it in his pack and carried the rest of it in his arms. Steve shouldered the pickaxe.

"Alright, what happened to you?" Nick asked.

"I-" Steve paused. This was going to be hard to explain, even to Nick. As Horace had said, he had a feeling that Nick wasn't going to believe him. "I got attacked."

"By what? Not one of Ms. Dooms-Patterson's wolves again? She says she has those things trained but they're vicious…" Nick interjected. He smiled briefly, but gave up the act when met with Steve's flat gaze. "Sorry, just trying to lighten the tension a little-"

"You want to know what happened or not? In fact, you want to really know something? I almost died!"

"What!" Nick exclaimed. "Steve, mate…"

"Yes I did. I got some creepy vision of white eyes, got attacked by a zombie, and oh yeah I almost got killed by some white orb! That's what happened to me." Nick stared at him for a few moments. There was no doubting the seriousness in Steve's voice, or the fear in his voice.

"A zombat? What?"

"Zombie." Steve corrected him. As he said it Steve imagined his grandfather groaning at his recklessness. "Yeah, me and my grandfather went out to a mine this morning. He's teaching me-" Steve explained, hoisting the pickaxe "and after mining a few blocks I got attacked by a zombie! It was horrible. It was a man, but dead and full of holes and blood everywhere…" Steve fell silent for a moment "It almost killed me but my grandfather stopped it and the thing died after exploding into flames." Nick was silent. Steve went on with his story "Before that I had a vision in Nate's wagon. I saw a hundred pairs of white eyes staring at me – it was freaky…they kept chanting Etihw Seye or White Eyes over and over again. Then I fainted, and I was out for twenty minutes!"

"What happened, just now?" Steve took a breath, not a deep one for the risk of being sick again and continued.

"I was just walking- home you know with all this stuff and I felt the wind blowing harder and harder. The forest was getting darker, like the woods – it was getting colder…and colder. Then I felt that something was off- aside from that, like something was following me. I looked back and this white orb…I can't describe it any other way was floating at me. I tried to get away but it passed right through me." Steve paused "It felt like something was sucked out of my chest. I- it hurt badly…I couldn't move. I was terrified, like the way you found me. And then you were there- I thought you were a zombie at first…" Steve trailed off and fell silent. There was a quiet pause for several seconds.

"I- I don't know mate…" Nick said "This all happened today?"

"Y-yeah." Steve replied.

"And I thought I had a bad day…" Nick murmured "You mentioned that you saw white eyes. My older brothers used to tell me the story about White Eyes when I misbehaved. If you don't behave old White Eyes is gonna come get you while you're asleep! One night I swore I saw a pair of white eyes looking at me from the window- it scared the Nether out of me. Mum came and found my brothers flashing round shaped iron ingots through the window. Haven't trusted them ever since."

"Yeah right- well I actually saw it. I swear. I was riding in Nate's cart- he's back from Auckland or somewhere apparently," Nick whistled at this "and then I went into this trance. My ears were ringing and there were hundreds of pairs of white eyes- well you know the rest of it…"

"Sounds like you were seeing things." Nick observed.

"Really?" Steve said with heavy sarcasm.

"Alright, yeah I know. Okay I believe you Steve." He said putting an arm around him.

"No you don't." Steve mumbled.

"Yeah well I'm trying too." Nick replied "You looked scared out of your mind and from what I remember you were never a very good actor so something bad must have happened. Like that- uh- the zombie?"

"You can say that again." Steve replied "My grandfather told me not to tell anyone about it. But its real I swear. In fact, I should show you the place where it came from."

"No way!" Nick exclaimed, "I'll take your word for it."

"You should see it." Steve replied. He felt his frustration rising, would no one ever believe him? Couldn't his friend at least take him seriously?

"What? The zombat's-"

"Zombie."

"The zombie's…that's still there?" Nick asked. "I thought you said it burned up."

"Parts of it did." Steve said cryptically. "We can drop the stuff off here." He said with a repulsed face from the smell of the meat "And I can show you the site where it happened."

"Alright. Sure." Nick replied "Why not? I need a little adventure in my life anyway."

"Too much of this adventure could kill you." Steve said warningly. Nick chuckled, and finally the dark mood upon the conversation finally began to lift.

"You said you nearly died back there. Are you sure you're not hurt or anything? Not turning into a zombie or something?" Nick asked as the pair reached the gate of Horace's house.

"How would you feel after nearly dying?" Steve said flatly. Nick gave a weak laugh,

"Not too good I guess. I haven't had many of those experiences so you're the expert there." He said, following behind Steve who had opened the gate for him.

"Don't remind me." Steve said darkly.

Quickly the two bounded up to the porch and entered the house.

"Where's the icebox?" Nick asked looking around the incredibly cluttered kitchen.

Horace was not known for his organizational skills and neither was Steve. This fact was made very apparent by the fact that towels were littered around the kitchen and various cooking ingredients were stored anywhere they would fit. Even so, Steve had mastered his way around the kitchen, and thankfully large things like the icebox almost never moved mainly because it took a lot of effort to put them somewhere else.

"Let's see…this way." Steve said, navigating through the tangled kitchen to landing, which led to the basement. "It's down there," Steve said, pausing to light a torch "small gray box, really cold. Can't miss it."

"Not with that description." Nick said as he descended the short landing and returned a moment later having deposited all the meat packages in the right place. "Give me a moment, got to wash the smell out." He said, hurrying upstairs where the loo was. Steve paused and sniffed his own clothes, as far as he could tell the smell hadn't rubbed off on him.

Steve glanced around the house for a moment. He had the strong temptation just to stay inside it for a few months; after all he was safe inside. But after what had just happened in the woods Steve had a feeling that there was more to the story, just as he did after the encounter with the zombie.

He felt his chest in the spot where the orb had run him through. Everything was normal, his heart was beating, maybe a little too quickly but there wasn't anything missing. He didn't feel any pain. Steve sighed and leaned against the wall. What would Horace say when he told him about the latest events? He would obviously be concerned, but what else? Would they have to move? Or would things return to normal as they had been for eighteen years?

Suddenly Steve heard Nick bounding down the staircase.

"Ready to go?" Steve asked once Nick had reappeared.

"Whenever you are." Nick replied.

"Let's go." Steve said, determination entering his voice. Not only did Steve want to see the site to show Nick what had happened but also to find out for himself if there were any more of the zombies lurking around. "How good are you with that axe?" he asked.

"Steve, mate I'm a lumberjack. I'm the best there is! By the way are you going to leave that pickaxe here?"

"No it might come in handy. Besides grandfather wanted me to practice some more…" Steve trailed off.

With that the two companions went back the way they came. Steve went the same way Horace had earlier that day towards the strip mine. But this time, Steve was careful to look out for the edge from the last time where he had made an abrupt crash landing in the mine. Steve walked around the perimeter for a moment before finding a dirt trail which led smoothly downwards into the strip mine. Nick whistled.

"I didn't know this mine was here." He said with a laugh "And this close by! Alright- so where's the rest of this zombie you were talking about?"

"It's not here…" Steve muttered. The pile of ashes that marked the remains from the zombie had disappeared, the odor of burned flesh was long gone, and even the streak of blood that had marked the stone had disappeared. It made sense that the smell had faded away but the blood, and the ashes that couldn't have disappeared by itself. Besides, it hadn't rained since the previous night. Had the site been tampered with?

"It was right here." Steve said gesturing to the ground "I swear, there was a streak of blood and everything!"

"Maybe the ashes got blown away or something." Nate suggested.

"Blood doesn't blow away." Steve said darkly. Nate just looked at him helplessly.

"I don't know Steve. What do you want me to do?"

"We have to mine it. There's got to be more of them somewhere." Steve said.

"Mine it? Wait hang on, are you saying that we have to look around to find more zombies?"

"Yeah, I guess that's exactly what I'm saying." Steve said, looking Nick right in the eye.

"I've received better offers…" Nick grumbled "Alright what do you want me to do then?"

"Guard. You've got the axe and like you said you know how to use it." Steve replied.

"So let me get this straight, we're looking for man eating zombies that existed thousands of years ago because you encountered one today." Nick said.

"Yeah, and if you don't believe me then you can leave." Steve said heatedly. Nick sighed,

"Alright I'll stand guard." He said pulling out his axe and holding it in one hand. "Where were you going to look though?"

"Around." Steve replied, taking off for the darkest end of the strip mine with Nick behind him.

Steve searched everywhere that he could think of. He looked in the nearby fields, in the darkest places of the strip mine and even a little in the nearby woodlands. He had been looking for two full hours and had yet to find a single zombie or anything else unusual save for a musty pink hat which they speedily disposed of. The sun was beginning to sink into the hillside as Steve dropped his pick and panted after finishing off the stone block he was mining. Steve had mined out blocks all over the strip mine in search of some dark cave or something where the horrible things might have come from but to no avail.

"Didn't find anything?" Nick asked, stepping next to Steve.

"Nothing." Steve said. "I don't know where it came from."

"That's alright with me." Nick said. This made Steve laugh a little. He was a little glad he didn't find anything too.

"Grandfather said they didn't like the light…" Steve murmured.

"What?" Nick asked. "Look Steve, it's late, it'll be night in a little bit." He said gesturing to the sky which had turned a dull pink.

"Oh yeah- right." Steve said, grabbing his pick and trudging through the dirt path and out of the mine. He cursed softly. It was around eight thirty by his reckoning and far too late to go back into the woods. Steve wished he hadn't disobeyed his grandfather's instructions- if he had just stayed inside the house like a good boy then he wouldn't have the problem of going through the woods at night. Strange things had always happened in the woodlands near their house but Steve never thought he would almost die there in daytime! It made him even more frightened of what could happen to him at night.

Steve glanced towards the woods. The trees swayed in the wind, and beckoned with sinister shapes from the lack of lighting. Steve shuddered and decided to see if his grandfather was still in town. At least there was decent lighting there, not to mention other people.

"Where are you going?" Nick asked.

"Town." Steve replied.

"Don't want to go through the woods again huh? I don't blame you." Nick replied "Creepy place. But if it wasn't there I'd be out of a job." He chuckled. This statement piqued Steve's interest.

"Did you ever see anything strange in the woods before?" he asked.

"You mean did I ever see a bunch of floating balls of white light coming to kill me? Or a hundred pairs of white eyes? No I haven't." Nick replied. They were getting closer to the town now. Steve could see hundreds of torches flaring up as the townspeople prepared for the night. "Speaking of which, where are you going?"

"The Inn of the Lonely Dragon." Steve replied. "My grandfather- he said he's visiting a friend there, it's about the zombie- thing."

"Ohh…" Nick said "Well stay safe okay? I've got get home…they're probably all wondering where in the name of Notch I am anyway."

"I'll try to." Steve said with a weak smile.

"Listen, Steve." Nick said. They were almost in the town limits now. A stray torch lit the ground near them giving Nick's face an orange glow. "I believe you, I do. As hard as it is to believe what you told me I don't think you're lying."

"You don't huh?" Steve asked, not entirely convinced. "You don't think I'm crazy?"

"Nah." Nick smiled "Listen, I've never seen anyone as scared as you were just then in the forest. My brothers haven't scared me that bad- and they've played some nasty pranks before… But yeah, let's just say I'll be on the lookout tonight."

"Thanks." Steve replied. "I just don't know what's going on…"

"Believe me mate, neither do I." Nick said. "Take care of yourself Steve." Steve gave him a small wave as they parted ways, Nick heading over to his small residence on the outskirts of town and Steve to the tall dark building of the Lonely Dragon Inn.

His grandfather had said that he would be in town quite late to talk to Nate and the mayor about the incident at the cave. Perhaps his grandfather was still around. Steve hoped so; otherwise he'd be spending the night at Nick's rather than chance another trip into the woods. However, sleeping on the hard floor or on a bale of hay at Nick's place was one of the last thing's Steve wanted to do especially when his home was crowded enough with seven family members.

Steve walked onto the main road in Darton. The sun had finally sunk beneath the sky. It was nine o'clock and the torches all around the town had been lit. There was hardly a sound save for the occasional crackling of a torch or the howl of a wolf.

Steve scanned the buildings for a moment. There it was, the Lonely Dragon Inn, painted in white letters on a board that swung lightly in the wind. Suddenly there was a low boom, followed by a distant rumble of thunder. Steve looked up and felt something wet splat against his nose. This was promptly followed by several more and multiple dark spots appearing on his teal blue shirt. It took him several moments to realize it was raining.

Steve cursed and hurried over to the patio of the inn where he paused, caught his breath and stepped inside. At first the warm atmosphere, the murky air, and the strong smell of ale nearly overwhelmed Steve as he walked inside. Steve paused for a moment, blinked and glanced around the inn. There were several people sitting at one table, playing dice, and another two in the corner drinking quietly. Steve didn't recognize any of these faces but he didn't have to look much farther to see one he did, that of the innkeeper Enoch. Enoch was drying several glasses before he looked up to see Steve at the entrance, and his face broke out into a wide smile.

"Steve!" Enoch boomed. Several people at the table glanced at him for a moment before turning away and returning to their business. Steve glanced at the floor for a moment before looking back at the innkeeper.

"It's good to see you Enoch." Steve said. The innkeeper was a hefty, muscular man who also happened to be Horace's cousin. He was the kind of man who held two personalities, one extremely bouncy and kind and the other grumpy and short tempered. Steve was fortunate to be on his good side, and he took measures to stay there as he did enjoy Enoch's company.

"Well Steve what'll it be?" Enoch asked as Steve came up to the counter.

"Sorry?"  
"To drink my dear boy!" the innkeeper chuckled.

"Oh –er I'm here for a different reason actually." Steve explained.

"Ah, you wouldn't be looking for my cousin now would you?"

"Yeah I'm looking for him. Is he here? He said he was visiting a friend-"

"He's here, in the eleventh room with that _traveler_. Queer folk; don't trust them as far as you could throw a boulder. They're full of _ideas_; cause nothing but trouble in my opinion."

"Yeah… he just got back from Auckland apparently." Steve paused.

"Mining are we?" Enoch asked, glancing at the pickaxe Steve was holding in his right hand.

"Oh yeah, uh it's a bit heavy. Do you mind if I leave it here?" Steve asked, hoisting up the pick and setting it down as gently as possible on the bar's surface.

"Better than that, I'll safeguard it for you." Enoch said, grabbing the handle of the pick and taking it over to a nearby chest and placing it there. "Your grandfather told me you were doing mining. Good work mining; it'll make you really appreciate raw, hard work."

"Oh it's definitely done that." Steve said, rubbing his arm, Enoch chuckled at this. Steve hadn't been paying attention to it but the weight of the pick had greatly strained his arm. Steve made a mental note to not carry the thing in one hand for too long. "Thanks."  
"My pleasure Steve, my pleasure." Enoch said, returning to his tasks. As Steve headed upstairs he could have sworn he heard him mutter "Auckland…burn me, the ideas those people get in their heads…"

There were four levels in the Lonely Dragon. One was where the bar, the tables and the dining area were- Steve had just left that part. The second and third levels were the rooms, with ten rooms on each level. And the fourth level was the balcony, which also served as room for extra tables when the barroom was full. Therefore, by Steve's reckoning the eleventh room was the first one on the third floor.

Steve bounded up the winding staircase, past the second level and shortly reached the third level. Steve could hear muffled fragments of conversation coming from inside.

"I told you what I saw Nate-"

"Do you think- wise to tell him-"

"Of course it – is!"

Were they talking about the zombie? Steve wondered. It was what Horace said he had planned to talk with him about. _Do you think – wise to tell him…_ Steve repeated the words in his mind. Did they discover something important about what was going on and didn't plan to tell him about it? There was only one way to find out.

"That's impossible Nate!" Horace exclaimed. But before Nate could respond the door flew open and Steve walked into the room. "Steve! What in the name of – what the devil are you doing here boy?! I told you to stay at home!" Horace hissed. Steve just looked at him nonchalantly.

"If you're talking about the zombie that's every bit as much my business as it is yours." Horace glared at him, infuriated. His cheeks had turned a violet color and his eyes had a dangerous twinkle in them.

"Horace- Steve, I-" Nate started. The old man appeared equally startled by Steve's sudden appearance but unlike Horace he was not angry.

"Nate- leave it please!" Horace closed his eyes and mopped his hair with his hand for a moment before turning back to Steve. "You're absolutely right Steven. However I must admit I am shocked that you disobeyed my specific instructions!" Steve ignored him.

"I almost died." He said.

"Steven I am perfectly aware that you almost died. First you see a vision, and then a zombie attacks you out of nowhere. And then you talk back to me- your grandfather, who raised you to be kind, responsible, and obedient. Did none of those lessons get through that head of yours? Good heavens boy I must say something for your attitude. If anyone ought to know that you almost died it would be me wouldn't it? And then I tell you to go straight home, simply out of concern for your safety and then you come all the way back here, at nine twenty at night acting like an entitled teenager! And-" Horace said raising a pudgy finger. His cheeks were completely purple and even his nose had turned a deep red.

"Horace."

"And to add to that-"

"Horace."

"Nate, I must ask you to please not interrupt me while I am talking to Steve. He is my grandson and-"

"Horace! I don't think Steve means what you think!" Nate exclaimed.

"Oh does he now? All right then, out with it boy. Why are you here?" Horace asked. Steve sighed for a moment. He completely understood his grandfather's frustration, especially after what had just happened.

"I'm sorry grandfather, I know I shouldn't have left." He started, "But I had to come back." His grandfather arched an eyebrow at this "I guess I should start from when I left. I was walking down the road when I saw this strange orb of white light coming towards me. I didn't know what it was but I was afraid. It was eerie. I tried to run away but it followed me- and ran through my body." Steve explained "It hurt really badly. I felt like something was being sucked out of my chest, although…I don't know what it was. I felt a scorching pain everywhere. I couldn't move, talk or even think. But just like that, it was over and I was okay- after being a little sick. Then Nick found me by chance and I told him about what happened on the way back, where we put the meat in the icebox. After that we went to the strip mine again and I showed him where you fought the zombie grandfather, but nothing was left, not even a trace. I thought it was strange, you know because the zombie's blood had disappeared, although it would have taken a strong rain to wash it away. So, Nick and I searched the surrounding area but we didn't find anything. By that time it was dusk and I had two choices, to head back through the forest or to come here, and that's what happened." Steve finished.

Horace stared at him for a moment. After a few minutes his nose began to deflate, and his cheeks regained their normal reddish hue. Nate cocked his head at Steve, a concerned look on his face.

"Steve I- I'm sorry…I shouldn't have sent you out there like that…I didn't know," Horace said before breaking into a short fit of coughing.

"You said you saw a ball of white light Steve?" Nate asked his voice grave.

"Yeah I did." Steve replied.  
"The situation is worse than you told me Horace…" Nate murmured, putting a finger to his lips. The sound of laughter echoed from the ground floor, clearly someone down there was having a good time.

"What? The situation is worse? Nate?" Horace asked.

"One time during my travels I encountered a destitute family. They were of course one of many in the world. That fact about them did not interest me." Nate said, the old man was pacing around the room now. He walked over to the window and looked out onto the road below. "They were once a rich family, very powerful and very wealthy people. But they came under a curse, as they had told me. One day the father- he was absent when I talked to them but he was riding through a lonely road near the town. As he was riding he had a feeling someone was following him. It was, like Steve described a strange white orb that no matter how hard he urged his horse to go he could not get away from. As the family told me he experienced very similar pain to what Steve went through."

"But what does that mean?" Steve found himself ask.

"It means you are in danger Steve." Nate said darkly "I do not doubt that you already have an idea of this from your encounter with the zombie-" he tapped the handle of the bloodstained pickaxe "but you must understand that this is much worse."

"How?"

"I did some research about the white orb the unfortunate family I encountered. It took me many years of research and travel but I eventually uncovered what I believe to be the truth. When you originally told me of your strange vision of Etihw Seye I was surprised as you may have noticed." Steve nodded, remembering the dark look on Nate's face when he had asked him about who Etihw Seye was. "Yes Steve when you asked me about it I thought it unwise to trouble you with such things as I thought the vision was most likely a trick of the light or something of the like. I was a fool Steve, Horace. I must apologize to both of you before I tell you everything that I know."

"It's okay." Steve said.

"I'd like to know more about this legend." Horace added. Nate smiled grimly.

"As you have already figured out Etihw Seye is White Eyes. And as you already know Steve, White Eyes was a demon, created by Baezaamon to plague humanity as long as it existed."

"But that was a legend." Steve interjected.

"Indeed Steve. Yes, Horace told you all about it just earlier today. I can imagine that you were not satisfied by this mythological explanation. Now," Nate continued, pacing back to the window a second time. "The truth is the legend is not true. White Eyes, the demon that you heard about in a legend and the same that is used to frighten children is real Steve, Horace. I found it hard to believe at first but the texts do not lie. I discovered an ancient text with extreme difficulty that explains everything. You see, the white orb is the symbol of White Eyes. Whenever a target is chosen as its prey the floating white orb is the warning signal before an attack."

"Wait-" Horace interrupted "Are you suggesting that the town is about to be attacked?"

"Yes I am." Nate said. "You see, just two days after that poor man had the unpleasant experience with the white orb, his house and all of his servants were killed and he was severely burned. It had happened thirteen days before I arrived."

"You mean that we could be attacked in two days then?" Steve asked, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. Nate turned and sat down on the bed. If it was possible, the old man seemed to have aged even further.

"Yes."

"What do you suggest we do then?" Horace asked blithely. Nate smiled grimly,

"Pack your things and run."

Unknown to any of the occupants a pair of white eyes was watching the inn. He had seen that pathetic mortal enter the inn in search of the fat man who was his grandfather. The white eyed creature scowled. And now there was that old meddling fool, telling Steve everything he knew, about him! They had to die, the white eyed figure decided.

Suddenly a small pillar of fire sprouted from his right hand. But just as soon as it had stared the rain put it out. The white eyed figure sneered and snapped his fingers. Abruptly the rain stopped.

"What was that?" Horace asked, cocking his ears. The pounding on the roof had ceased. It had stopped raining. Nate paused and walked over to the window. Suddenly the old man jumped back as a loud roaring sound consumed Steve's ears and he was blown off his feet and slammed into the door. Steve barely had time to scramble to his feet before a wall of fire descended upon him.


	4. Chapter 4 Seen and Unforeseen

**Chapter 4 Seen and Unforeseen**

**A/N: Did you enjoy the massive cliffhanger from Chapter 3? Wait till you read this chapter.**

**Also this marks a new achievement for me. I actually wrote 4,000 words in one sitting, which is something that I had no idea I could even do! **

"Grandfather!" Steve screamed as he saw Horace fall with the collapsing floorboards. His grandfather looked back at him and opened his mouth as if to say something but it was too late. The floorboards gave way and took him down with them. It was a moment that seemed to last several hours as Steve watched, horrified as Horace fell through the floor and into the waiting arms of the flames. With that, it was over; his grandfather had disappeared into the roaring fire. Steve stood near the door, his mouth open in a silent scream, his body frozen in place. His body was telling him to move, run, do something but he wasn't responding. It was as if time had frozen around Steve, the fire didn't matter, white eyes didn't matter, all he wanted to do was save his grandfather.

Steve ignored the heat of the flames and stepped forwards to the edge of the remaining floorboards and looked down. The floors below him were engulfed in flames. Suddenly Steve heard another rumbling and a crash beside him, knocking him back into the door. Charred wood, and ashes rained down on Steve, he could feel the very floorboards under him creak. Even in his state, he could deduce what had happened- a second fireball had hit the building.

Steve gave a yell, yanked the now burning door open and raced down the stairwell. At first he smelled smoke but as he descended down the levels a wall of smoke spiked by red flame blocked his path. Steve looked desperately around him, the fire spreading, the smoke was slowly choking him to death and the walls of the inn were crashing around him. His only options were to stay where he was and burn to death or to take his chances with the fire and hope another fireball didn't hit the collapsing inn. Steve already knew which choice he was going to take.

With hardly a thought Steve ran down the stairwell, right into the smoke and the rising flames. The smoke consumed him; it blinded, and stifled his senses. He covered his nose with one hand and raced through the gray wall. Flames sprouted from around him like demons hungry for his soul. They licked at his chest, his legs, and his head but Steve ignored them. He ignored the searing pain across his chest and the congestion in his lungs from the smoke; he was determined to get out of the fiery death-trap alive.

Suddenly a hand appeared from the gray and yanked him to the side.

"This way." a voice growled. Steve yelped but complied as he stumbled through the smoke. He thought he saw the bar as he rushed past, which meant that they were at the first floor and almost out of the building. Steve felt an extra tug on his arm causing him to stumble forwards a few feet. But it was just in time, as the entire roof collapsed on top of where Steve had been standing just seconds before. Sparks rained down on his back causing him to yelp from the thousands of small burns. There was another yank on his arm and he fell flat onto the cool wet grass and lost consciousness.

_Steve was standing in a field. His shirt wasn't stained or burned in any way, and neither were any other parts of his body. He felt fit, and full of energy. It was sunny outside and plants were blooming all around him. He smiled; those plants were ones he had planted just the day beforehand. Nate was right; it really was beautiful handiwork Steve thought, as he gazed upon a row of petunia flowers. Suddenly there was a voice from behind him,_

"_Steve." Steve looked behind him to see the pleasant figure of his grandfather walking towards him, dressed entirely in white robes. _

"_Grandfather? What are you doing out here?" Steve asked. His grandfather smiled and folded his hands together._

"_I could ask you the same thing Steven. I came out here to see what you were up to actually. I was watching you from my study; you were staring at the garden for quite some time. Although I must say your work is beautiful I don't know if it needs quite that much attention." Steve laughed a little at this,_

"_What were you up too in your study?" he asked._

"_Oh…things you know." Horace said with a flick of his wrist. _

"_Oh really?" Steve asked with a small smile. _

_Horace's face flushed at this before he gave an indignant huff, "Yes well I suppose there's no point in keeping secrets since you already know-"_

"_The map right?" _

"_Precisely Steven." _

"_Why are you dressed like that?" Steve asked, realizing his grandfather's unusual attire. _

_Horace smiled again._

"_You were always very perceptive Steven. Come, I must have a talk with you, there are many things we must discuss and I must say that my time is running short…" he continued, glancing up at the sky briefly before looking back at Steve. _

_Steve frowned; his grandfather was acting very oddly. Normally he would have been far grumpier and have told him to stop smelling the roses and to come inside or do something productive. _

"_What do you mean you don't have a lot of time grandfather? Are you going somewhere?"_

"_Oh I suppose you could say that." Horace replied "Now my dear boy there is much I have to talk to you about. Come." He said, before turning and walking back towards the house. Clearly, he expected Steve to follow him. Steve jogged up to his grandfather and walked in step beside him._

"_What is it grandfather?" he asked. "What's going on? Why are you wearing those white robes? What do you have to tell me?" Horace chuckled,_

"_Questions and more questions eh? Yes, well I suppose I ought to answer a few of them as that is what I am here to do anyway." he paused, and opened the gate and the pair walked through it "Steven I am here to tell you what Nate could not. You see Steven, where we are now is the Aether. Hence these white robes, which I must say are quite comfortable."_

"_The Aether?" Steve asked eyes wide "Does that mean we're dead?"_

"_Death? That is indeed the question." Horace said with another chuckle "Neither of us is dead, depending on your definition of course. However, yes I am physically no more. Your case, I believe, is a little different."_

"_I-" Steve opened his mouth, he felt his stomach churning, a thousand different emotions conflicting with each other. "Is this a dream?"_

"_Is it?" Horace asked "Perhaps life is a dream and this is reality? I must say I wish it was, it is quite a bit nicer here. No Steve, the situation that I told you a moment before is quite real unfortunately. I wish I had more time in the world but perhaps it is better that is not the case."_

"_Steve do you remember what happened to you just before you went unconscious?" Horace asked, looking at Steve carefully._

"_I-I was pulled…by someone and they got me out right before the building collapsed." _

"_Precisely. That leads me to conclude that you are not physically dead. Now, I imagine that you feel saddened over my rather, shall we say untimed demise -"_

_Steve nodded shakily as tears started streaming down his face._

"_Yeah…I-I'm sorry I don't k-know what's going on…I couldn't reach you… I wanted to save everyone b-but it – the fires…" Steve said choking on his tears. Suddenly he felt a tissue pressed into his hands. He looked up to see his grandfather's kindly face looking at him. "I tried…I-"_

"_Take it."_

"_T-thanks…" Steve said, as he paused to wipe his eyes._

"_Easy now boy." Horace said gruffly, "I wouldn't have expected you to do anything else." _

"_B-but I… I failed!" Steve cried. "Y-y-you're dead and it's my fault!"_

"_No Steven, no one could have saved Nate and I from the flames." _

"_I could – if I… if I had b-been faster…" _

_Horace sighed and gently patted his grandson on the shoulder, "I would expect you to experience grief over my death Steven. Undoubtedly you will continue to experience it, perhaps for the rest of your life. However, reflecting on my death will only cost us time. As trivial as that sounds to you at the moment it is of the utmost importance that as little time be wasted as possible. Do you understand me Steven?"_

_Steve nodded. _

"_Good, let's continue." Horace said, putting an arm around Steve's shoulder. "It's alright boy, it's alright."_

"_I-I'm sorry…I'm s-so sorry…" he choked. _

"_Crying is the sign of a good heart. It is the very symbol of the emotional outpour for someone you love. Your parents would be proud of you right now Steven. Crying is nothing to be ashamed of. I never got the chance to tell you about your parents. I didn't want to burden you with information about them since I didn't wish for you to dwell too much on the past. I was foolish to do this Steve. I was foolish to send you into the woods with danger present. I was a fool, I admit it but past decisions cannot be undone and so here we are." Horace continued, "Your parents were brave people, fine people. I have told you this many times of course. However I circumstances seemed to have prevented me from telling you the rest of the story…but Notch has kindly given me the chance to inform you of the rest._

"_I waited for a long time to tell you the true history of your parents and why they disappeared. I deliberately kept their tragic story from you – as I have already stated I did not wish for you to dwell too much on past events. Nevertheless, recent events such as Nate's intriguing story about the white light and yours as well brought distant memories back to my mind. You see Steven, that young man that Nate was talking about whose family had lost everything was your father and my son."_

"_What?" _

"_You see Steven, we are a cursed family. Our ancestors have been plagued by White Eyes - as you know him - or Herobrine, which is his true name. You see Steven, what I believe is that we are descendants of an old ruler, perhaps the first of mankind. As I told you in the legend White Eyes, or actually let us refer to him as Herobrine, was created by Baez to plague mankind for eternity. It is possible Steven that we are the original line of man and that is why, for generations, members of our family have mysteriously disappeared as my son did."_

"_But why are you telling me this?" he asked. It was just another legend, another old wives story or the like._

"_You must understand Steven that I tell you this in order to protect you. Herobrine has not managed to kill you – yet but he will try to and that is why I am warning you."_

"_Thanks." Steve replied "N-nice to know that in a few days or maybe a few hours I'll be up here with you forever…" _

"_It is a nice thought isn't it? Frankly I would have come up here much sooner if it didn't involve dying…"_

"_Don't-please…" he started, feeling another wave of sadness well up in him. His grandfather smiled warmly,_

"_My dear boy, death is merely a temporary setback. The grief will come, and it will pass. It is how life goes. Surely you did not think I was never going to die Steven?"_

"_Yeah-b-but not like this…" Steve said in anguish. _

"_Indeed." Horace said, "But that brings us to our next topic. When you awaken Steven, and it will be quite soon…" he paused and glanced up at the sky. The sun was dipping lower and the shadows around the forest had increased. "I want you to visit the house and take the map."_

"_Why?"_

"_Well, to tell you the truth Steven that map is ancient. It is a culmination of ages of works by me, and my forefathers. Pick up the map and it will tell you precisely where you are at any given moment. I want you to have the map Steven, so that you never lose your way, especially in the difficult times ahead- oh and yes naturally you inherit everything else of course."_

"_I don't care." Steve replied. _

"_Yes well, that is understandable. However there are several more important artifacts that you ought to know about. One of them is an iron sword; my father's which you will find buried under the living room rug beneath a trap door. I never told you about it as it was a memory of past violence in my family bloodline that I chose to ignore. However, you will undoubtedly need it for the time being."_

"_A-a sword? But I don't know how to use a sword grandfather…"_

"_You will find there are those who will be all too able to help you Steven. If you give it all you've got and never give up then I have every faith that you will not be joining me up here for quite some time."_

"_I -" _

"_Listen to me Steven." Horace said, talking slightly faster. "You must go to Arathor and follow the instructions I told you before. Look in the library if you want to know why, there is an ancient text there that should explain what I cannot tell you. The world is in danger Steven, as you have most likely deduced. However if the proper measures are taken I believe you can stop it." _

"_B-but how?"_

"_There is no time to explain my dear boy nor do I even have the knowledge to do so." Horace said sadly. It had gotten a lot darker outside, the shadows from the forest had almost reached the two of them. "All I can tell you is, you must follow every instruction I have told you. Seek help, and never give up. It would make your parents proud to see you now Steven. And in their memory and in mine, I ask you to avenge their losses and mine- if that is how the saying goes."_

"_Grandfather," Steve said "Don't leave… please…" Horace smiled, and walked up to him as the last rays of the sun slowly disappeared into the skyline.  
"Ah well. I am old, not that it was near my time but I have seen life and all the joys and anguish in it. Long ago I made a promise to protect you Steven and this is the fulfillment of that promise. However, my part in this world is now finished I entrust it that promise to you for the sake of all." He said, folding his hands over Steve's. "I want you to know Steven, that I'm proud of you." _

_With that, his grandfather turned, and slowly walked away into the dark of the forest. Suddenly all the light faded from the forest, and Steve felt himself rise up out of the Aether and into the world once more. _

"Steve? Steve!" he heard a concerned voice yell. Steve blinked and slowly opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by people. One man with a thick black beard was staring at him intensely.

"Alright boy?" he asked, holding out a hand. Steve took it and hoisted himself up. His shirt was wet. Apparently, Steve had been lying on the wet grass for some time.

"What's that you're holding?" the man asked. Steve looked at his hands; there was a leather object in them, shaped like a sword. It had an ancient gold lion painted on one end. The thing was a scabbard and had once held a sword by the indentations in it. How did it get in his hands? The thought occurred to him. Steve brushed it aside, it was just a scabbard.

"A scabbard." Steve replied, pushing through the crowd and looking around. It was midmorning; however the sunlight had made the attack from the previous night all too clear. The town had been blasted to bits in most places. Home after home had been burned to ashes. There were several holes in the ground where fireballs had smashed the ground and charred the grass. Steve turned and looked at the crowd of villagers behind him, many of whom were giving him concerned looks. Several of the villagers had been burned; one's hair was charred in several spots while another was holding up a wool bandage to a bloody head injury. Then Steve looked and saw the inn, or rather what remained of it.

The Inn of the Lonely Dragon had been blasted to bits. The roof had caved in on itself, and blackened debris scattered the surrounding area. Steve stared at the sight for a full minute before he walked towards it. Suddenly a hand clamped on his back.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you." A gruff voice said.

"Don't tell me what to do." Steve replied, whirling around and punching the man in the face. The man was thrown off his feet and slammed into the ground. Several people cried out.

"Heh. You think you're the only one who lost everything? Do you?! We all," he said, gesturing to the other villagers "lost our houses, our livelihoods, and our food!"

"Don't tell me about what _materials_ you lost." Steve spat, feeling his anger rising. The man quieted at this and backed away, rubbing his cheek timidly.

"Steve!" he heard a voice call. But Steve wasn't listening; he was already walking towards the inn.

Where was his grandfather? He had to be given a proper burial at least. Steve walked around the first floor of the inn, or at least what he thought was the first floor. The floor was scattered with broken chairs, burnt tables and broken drinking glasses from a previous night's binge. Steve put the scabbard on a nearby windowsill and began his search.

Steve dug around for a few moments, but there was nothing but ashes. He picked up a chair and threw it a few feet where it smashed to bits. Steve yelled and finally let his anger out, throwing more chairs, glasses, plates, wooden planks, anything he could get his hands on.

"Why?!" Steve yelled, "Why did you take him from me? What did he do to you?" he howled before leaning against a nearby wall to catch his breath. Steve turned and punched the wall, breaking the planks easily.

"Why…?" he asked, sliding down onto the floor. He began to cry. The tears came slowly at first but soon ran like a river from both eyes.

His grandfather had been his guardian, his friend, and his mentor for all of the life Steve could remember. Now he had been taken away, by some white eyed fiend that he hadn't even heard of two days before. Steve laughed a maniacal laugh and doubled over, shrieking with laughter that turned to a howl. He grabbed at his hair, ran his hands over his eyes and kicked anything around him, just for the sake of doing it.

The full impact of his grief hadn't hit him until after awakening from his visit in the Aether. But Steve now realized it was the last time he would ever see his grandfather. And now, there wasn't even a body for him to bury, to honor, or to cry over. All he had was ashes. Ashes were all that was left of his grandfather. _No, it can't be_ Steve thought. There had to be a body, somewhere. The villagers would have at least tried to rescue his grandfather from the flames as they had rescued him.

Steve stood up and resumed his search. It was the feeling that he could find his grandfather that drove him on. He ripped up floorboards, threw more chairs, smashed more walls, but there was nothing there. Steve then looked near the bar, he hadn't searched there. Steve ran over to it and threw away wine glasses, plates and any other objects that he didn't recognize. Then Steve saw it, a glint of white among a pile of blackened floorboards, it was his iron pickaxe. Steve reached over, tossed the wood away and pulled the pick out from the rubble. Its handle was slightly charred but otherwise the thing was intact. He brushed off the ashes that coated most of the handle and the head of the pick and examined it for a moment. Steve smiled; the pick had given him the hope he desperately needed. After all, if it was still there after the fire maybe his grandfather's body was somewhere among the rubble. Steve redoubled his efforts to locate his grandfather's body but after twenty more minutes of searching nothing was forthcoming.

"Aaaaagh!" Steve yelled, smashing the pick into the floor. He smashed it several more times before panting and leaning on the handle. Was there something he'd missed? Steve cursed, and cursed again. He cursed the pickaxe; he cursed himself, and most of all he cursed not knowing what was going on. Steve felt empty inside, as if there was an enormous hole in his chest. That hole was his past life, which had all been taken away from him in less than a fortnight.

_Perhaps there's no body_, Steve thought but he would make an honorary tribute to his grandfather anyway. Then Steve saw what appeared to be a stone tip peeking out from under the rubble. Steve looked a little closer and saw that it was the stone head of his grandfather's pickaxe. He bent down and grabbed it, although he nearly dropped it after feeling the thing cut into his hand. Steve smiled, what was it that his grandfather had told him just the day before? _I hit myself in the foot in my first foray into mining- couldn't walk for a week. _Now, Steve had cut himself on the handle of the pickaxe.

Steve held the thing in the palm of his hand. He could feel the sharper edge of the pick digging into his hand but he didn't care. Steve watched as the blood slowly ran down the edge of the handle, mixing with the zombie's and staining it further. Then he realized this was what he needed to make the proper tribute to his grandfather. After all, one of the man's final acts had been to teach him mining. Steve looked at the crack in the pickaxe. The thing was a testament to endurance. No matter how hard the struggle he would make it through cracked but not broken. _Always see your goals through Steven. Always!_ The words came back to him. His grandfather was right. Steve took a deep breath and slowly reorganized his thoughts. First he would make a tribute to his grandfather, then he would get the map and the sword, and then he would avenge his family, and anyone else who had gotten hurt.

Steve grabbed the scabbard with his free hand and put it in his belt-hole. Then he took the iron pick and headed out of the wreckage towards the town. The crowd had largely dispersed, that was good as Steve didn't need more misery than he was already dealing with. He glanced around the village; he needed some wood and a shovel.

"Steve! Steve!" a familiar voice called. Steve whirled around, his pick raised. It was Nick, although slightly burned and extremely battered. He was holding his axe. Was he going to attack him? Had the villagers turned on him too? Did they know his family was cursed- and that the destruction was entirely his fault?

"Steve- I…are you-?" Nick asked, eyes widening as he saw the blood streaming from his left hand where the pick had cut it. _No,_ Steve thought. He wasn't going to give Nick a chance to find out.

"Yes." Steve replied. It would be over, very quickly and then Steve could get on with making his tribute. Friend or not Nick couldn't know about it. Steve lashed out with the iron pick at Nick's head. However instead of feeling it smash into Nick's skull he felt his attack parried and the pick knocked out of his hands.

"What are you doing?!" Nick yelled. "What's wrong with you?" Steve ignored him and reached for the fallen pick. He grabbed the handle but couldn't pick it up, Nick had placed his boot on the side of the pick.

"Move." Steve growled.

"No."

"I said- move!" he yelled, throwing the bloody head of his grandfather's pick at him. Nick dodged it and kept his foot on the handle.

"Are you going to keep trying to kill me or what?" Nick asked.

"I might."

"Come on Steve, I saw you, I heard you. Everyone knows what happened."

"Then you know I don't have time to answer your stupid questions!" Steve screamed.

"I- what? You're not talking sense mate." Nick replied, eyes wide.

"Yeah well you wouldn't understand would you?" Steve yelled. "Because you know what I found out? We're all dead, you're dead, and I'm dead. And I'm getting out of here because it's not going to be me first."

"Steve -" he said, reaching out a hand. "You should get that hand bandaged up- the cut I mean it looks bad…"

Steve ignored him "I suppose you don't know about it then…"

"Know what?"

Suddenly Steve lashed out and gave a hard tug on the pick handle, finally removing it from under Nick's feet. Nick gave a yell of surprise and tried to pull it back. Steve felt the anger return to him once more. No one was going to stop him from giving his respects to his grandfather, not even his friend. Steve struck Nick, once, twice, and then a third time until he fell to the ground, out cold. He smiled and reached for the head of his grandfather's pick.

"I have some work to do." He said. "I'm sorry but I have to leave…"

Steve walked away from Nick's still form and towards the woods. He was blind to the blood dripping on the ground and on his pant legs. The sooner he got to the house the better, then Steve could begin properly honoring his grandfather. Then he would have to leave, and leave quickly, to Arathor as Horace had told him. He frowned and made a mental note to bring extra supplies for the journey. Perhaps if he left soon enough the rest of the townspeople could rebuild their lives without falling victim to a family curse.

Then Steve's mind turned to Herobrine. Or white eyes as he had known him for the past two days. Steve cursed him. He tightened his hold on the pick in a fit of self-control. Herobrine, the white eyed creature created thousands of years ago by some twisted god had taken his grandfather from him. Not only that, Herobrine had shattered Steve's world and now on two occasions, his nerves. He would kill Herobrine at any cost. The thought of this vindication made Steve smile, a sick, cold smile. Maybe after killing Herobrine he could find peace and maybe in a few years he could start a new life all his own.

After several minutes Steve reached the house. It looked similar as it had during his brief time in the Aether except much darker, and somehow colder despite the relative heat of the day. It seemed like part of the house had died with his grandfather. Steve slowly walked past the garden beds and towards the doorstep where he opened the door and walked inside.

At this point Steve's thoughts turned to Nick. Would his parents be proud of the way he had tried to kill him? Would his grandfather have approved? _Maybe they would,_ Steve thought, after all he was only trying to protect Nick from the future and his own past. He paused for a moment. No of course not, his grandfather would have given him a punishment or worse a lashing for what he had done. Steve cursed again. He cursed the emotions churning through his body and immediately felt the first pangs of regret.

Steve put the pickaxe and the stone head on the floor before he sank against the wall, gripping at his hair. Then the tears came again, even more than before. What was wrong with him? Steve wailed. He had just tried to kill his best friend, and then knocked him senseless. How did he know if Nick's own family had been incinerated in the attack or not? The questions just made Steve feel even worse. He couldn't save the world or stop Herobrine if he kept acting like that. Steve would become the monster if he lost control.

"P-p-please…help me…" Steve wept. "HELP ME!"

He looked up at the ceiling, and then back at the floor before he finally lost control and opened the door, running outside. He didn't care where he went; Steve just wanted to get away from it all, from anyone or anything. About halfway to the gate he stopped and saw the garden, his garden. Steve looked at a bed of beautiful sunflowers and had an idea.

Steve wiped the tears from his eyes and hurried back into the house where he grabbed the remains of his grandfather's pickaxe and took it over to a water bucket by the house. Steve dunked the pick in the water several times and gradually the blood began to come off, turning the water light red. Steve then took the pick and cut part of his shirt with it, taking care not to cut his skin. Then he wrapped the cloth around his cut hand, stemming the blood loss. He smiled, now he could get to work.

He got up and walked past the house towards the shed. Once there he reached up and took an iron spade that had been placed up against the side of the shed. Steve walked back to the garden bed, the shovel and the broken pickaxe in hand. Quickly, Steve decapitated each sunflower and took the flower heads with him. Steve knelt down near an open patch of dirt and quickly dug it up. Then he gently placed the remainder of his grandfather's pickaxe in the hole. Once this was done Steve covered the hole up and placed the flowers around the grave. After several minutes he finished and looked at his handiwork. He had arranged the flowers to spell a message:

**For Horace. A loving grandfather. A mentor and a father to me. **

Steve stared at it for a while. There wasn't anything he would change about it, the message said it all. He imagined his grandfather, looking down from the Aether at the message.

"F-f-for you grandfather…" Steve murmured, looking up at the clear blue sky. He could almost hear his grandfather complimenting him on his handiwork at that very moment.

Steve looked at his message for several more minutes before he took the spade and walked back to the shed where he quickly stored it. He had paid his tribute and now he had to leave. Steve re-entered the house and recalled his grandfather's instructions. What was it his grandfather had told him? _I want you to have the map Steven, so that you never lose your way, especially in the difficult times ahead_… he reiterated his grandfather's words in his head once more _The map…! _Steve thought. Quickly, he bounded up the staircase and into his grandfather's study. The map was still there, although it had been rolled up and tied with a single knot. Perhaps his grandfather had planned to take it somewhere? Steve didn't spend much time to think about it as he grabbed the map and unfurled it. The map looked much like it had when he had seen it two nights ago in Horace's study. But then Steve glimpsed two words in the bottom right corner of the map that hadn't been there the first time he'd seen it.

"Find me." He said. Suddenly a gold star appeared where their house was with the name "Steven" inscribed on it. He stared at it for a full minute, eyes widening in amazement. Steve took a step back and saw the gold star also move a little bit backwards as well. Steve walked forwards and the same thing happened again. The map was able to track exactly where he was. However, Steve noticed, no one else appeared on the map. Although, it wouldn't have made a big difference if they did, in a city Steve never would have been able to tell where anyone was on the map. Even so, the map would be perfect for his journey to Arathor, as all the roads were drawn and labeled and he could keep track of where he was at any time. Steve smiled, rolled up his grandfather's first bequest, and exited the room.

Steve then headed downstairs into the living room. _Now, it's the dead room…_ Steve thought sadly. Slowly he moved chairs, a small table, and various trinkets out of the way and rolled back the carpet. As his grandfather had told him there was a small trapdoor underneath. Steve grabbed the latch and swung the trapdoor open and descended the short ladder down into the dark basement below. Once he reached the bottom he grabbed a nearby torch off the wall and swiped it across the stone wall causing the torch to flare up immediately.

The room was illuminated instantaneously. Steve glanced around the place. It was a small room, perhaps no larger than four meters wide in all directions. Steve had only been there once before as a child when he had hid from his grandfather after beat up a mean kid from town. At the time the place had been a virtual stone box with few objects adorning it. However, it looked like his grandfather had spent a lot of time spiffing the place up and storing many things in it since then. Chest after chest lined the walls and a red velvet carpet covered the floor. Steve glanced around the room wondering which chest contained his family sword. He gained no clues from looking at the chests, so Steve placed the torch back in its holder and began to rummage through each chest.

About an hour later Steve had gone through most of the chests and found several ancient books, including one on plant life and mysterious fungi. He also discovered a deep blue robe, several old wineglasses and a box of petrified spiders- which he immediately stuffed back into the chest, but no sword. Steve cursed and looked around the room, he had opened all the chests but one, a double chest that lay against the center of one of the walls. It certainly looked large enough to contain a sword. Steve walked over, opened the latch and peered inside.

A plume of dust erupted from the chest causing Steve to cover his eyes and cough loudly. After a moment the dust cleared and he saw the somewhat rusted form of a sword lying inside the chest. Steve reached inside and pulled the sword out by the hilt and examined it. The sword was an iron blade, as his grandfather had told him and was around a full meter long with a short hilt and a ruby engraved into its pommel. Steve gave it a few swings, it was lightweight and easy to handle. For a blade that had not been touched for probably seventy years it was in remarkably good shape, as far as Steve could tell. He glanced around the room briefly before he sheathed his grandfather's second bequest.

"Thank you grandfather." Steve said softly. Now he could defend himself adequately. He had to admit, he felt rather noble carrying the sword- like a knight in the stories that his grandfather had told him.

Steve grabbed his map and climbed back up the ladder and back into the living room. Now he had to pack up and get ready to leave. Steve was taking no chances, he had a feeling that Herobrine would be back. It hadn't occurred to him earlier, but why hadn't Herobrine killed him already? Perhaps the white eyed fiend thought he had died in the fire at the Lonely Dragon like Nate and his grandfather had? Well, Steve reasoned, he wasn't about to let himself get killed by staying where he was.

He had the map, and the sword, his grandfather's two most valuable bequests. All Steve needed now was a good sized pack, better clothes, and some food. Steve hurried through the house into his bedroom where he found an old leather pack his grandfather had given to him. Steve smiled, it was perfect. He stuffed the map into the pack and carried it with him into the kitchen. Steve grabbed almost anything he could find in the kitchen that was fresh, and stuffed it into his pack, taking care not to squash the map. Several minutes later the pack was stuffed with cheeses, apples, a few wrapped up slices of watermelon and several stale loafs of bread.

Steve looped the pack around his back and went to the bathroom and examined his face in the mirror. Steve was surprised by his appearance. He looked like he had been around in the woods for several weeks and then beat up with a shovel. It wasn't far from the truth. Steve's hair was charred in several places, a half-healed scar ran down from his cheek to his jawbone and his shirt was in tatters. Steve examined his bandaged hand, which was now soaked red with dried blood. His pants were mercifully mostly intact but they had also been lightly burned by the flames. Even so, they were wet and covered with dirt, while his hair was littered with ashes. Steve's arms had also sustained multiple bruises and dried tears stuck to his face.

Steve reached up and traced his face with a finger. His eyes were red from his tantrum earlier on. If his grandfather could see him now he would make him some soup and talk to him about what happened. Steve sniffled, he hadn't just lost his grandfather and mentor but also his counselor.

"What have I done…" Steve murmured looking at his beat up face. "What have I done?!" he yelled, tearing off the bloodied bandage and throwing it into the toilet. Steve cursed loudly as blood spurted from the wound. He held his hand under the sink and eventually washed the blood away and down the drain. But just as soon as he had washed the wound clean more blood bubbled up from it. Steve cursed again and rinsed off the wound a second time.

"I will kill you Herobrine…I swear it…" Steve said, choking back tears. Steve didn't understand it; all he ever wanted to do was live his life in peace and become a farmer. But then with a single fireball his world had been shattered. Steve looked at his face in the mirror. His expression was twisted in pain, Steve grunted and tried to force a determined look but it just made his troubles worse. He sighed in anguish, put his pack on the floor and gradually worked on putting himself back together.

Abruptly there was a loud knock on the door from the landing below. Steve whirled around, who was there? Was it Herobrine coming around to finish him off? Steve drew his grandfather's sword and slowly walked down the stairs, he wasn't taking any chances. He reached the landing and slowly unbolted and opened the door. To his utter bewilderment Nick was standing there on the landing, his ever present axe slung over his back and sporting a black eye from their earlier confrontation.

"What do you want?" Steve growled, holding the sword out in a defensive posture.

"I want to talk." Nick replied.

"You came to the wrong place."

"I don't think I did." He said. "You almost got incinerated - and for your information I almost did too - your grandfather got killed and then you tried to kill me. You need help, and don't think about locking me out; I'll just cut my way in." Steve stared at him for a time. Part of him told him to kill Nick and just run, but another part of him told him to let him in. Steve's lip quivered; here was his friend, and trying to help him just a few hours after he had almost killed him.

"I-" Steve started, "Don't…I don't need your help."

"Yes you do Steve." Nick said taking a step closer "You can't just cry in here forever you know. And besides, you look terrible."

"So do you." He muttered. Nick smiled weakly,

"Can I come in?"

"Okay…" Steve trailed off, sheathing the sword. His friend's compassion made him feel even worse.

"I saw the flowers- in the garden you know… It looked really good. I know your grandfather would appreciate it."

"Don't- tell me what he'd like! You know nothing about him!" Steve yelled.

"Yeah but it's a good tribute Steve." Nick replied.

"I-I buried my grandfather's pick there…" Steve started. He took a breath and finally gave into his remorse. "I-I'm sorry for trying to kill you earlier…I know you're only trying to help. It feels horrible, you know? When your parent dies, it's like part of you is gone with them. I feel empty now, everything I see is gray, there's no taste, or anything left. I wish I was dead. Then I wouldn't be doing horrible things when I lose control…" he paused, sitting down and burying his head in his hands. "It's all happened too fast- and now he's gone!"

"I don't understand what's going on either Steve." Nick admitted "But you were right earlier- I just didn't know to believe you or not…"

"You want to know why it all happened?" Steve said in a pained voice "My father was killed by white eyes- or his real name Herobrine, and my father's father was too. Like I told you earlier, I'm already dead. Maybe I'll live until I'm sixty but then I'll die and so will anyone around me."

"What?"

"Yeah." he replied "I'm cursed, everyone in my family is. I'm the reason why the village burned down, why Nate got killed and my grandfather died…"

"Come on mate, you didn't do anything-"

"I was born! I guess that's reason enough!" Steve said sorrowfully.

"You're not going to die as long as I have something to say about it." Nick said gruffly "You're my best mate and I'm not about to let you die after what just happened to you- and to all of us."

Steve looked at the floor for a few moments. He was touched by his friend's compassion. Steve didn't have any plans on dying soon.

"My grandfather- I saw him after I got out of the burning inn. I was in the Aether Nick. It was sunny and everything. It was such a beautiful place…" he paused "My grandfather – he made a promise to protect me after Herobrine killed my father. He made me promise to protect everyone from Herobrine. The sword- it's my father's. I swore I'd use it to protect the world."

"That's noble." Nick replied.

"Yeah but what good would I be? An emotional wreck that can't control himself?"

"What do you think I'm here for? Steve, I heard you in the Inn back in town. It was the most horrible sound I'd ever heard. Do you really think I'm going to leave you by yourself and let you suffer like that?"

"I don't need your pity!" Steve snapped.

"Alright." Nick said, putting his hands up. "But I'm not leaving you. I don't care how angry you get or how many times you try to kill me I'm not leaving."

"What about your family?" he asked, looking at his feet.

"They'll be alright. Elain – the mayor's daughter's brought them to live with her in the mayor's house. Funnily enough, his house was the only one that wasn't burned or blown to bits." Nick explained. "So how are you going to protect the world?"

"I don't know!" Steve snapped. "I- I don't know…"

"Steve -" Nick started. But Steve wasn't listening. In a flash he was out of his chair and running upstairs. He had to have some time to himself, time to think about what was going on and to control himself. _I'm sorry Nick_, Steve thought_ but I can't do it right now…I - I don't want to lose control again!_ He slammed his bedroom door and threw off the scabbard and his shirt and put his face in his hands as the tears came again.

"Steve!"

"G-gods why… WHY?!" he howled as he rocked back and forth against the bedframe, "I-I'm sorry grandfather… I swear- by Notch I swear it I will kill…I will kill you Herobrine…I promise it."

Darkness gently settled over the large house like a blanket onto a child before a long night's sleep. The house had a cold aura about it, as if it had been deprived of all life, cheer, or happiness that it once held. The garden beds surrounding it had also seemed to have lost some of their robust color. To the occupant inside the place it was like the world had turned grayer and more depressing than before. Steve was currently sitting bare-chested on his bedside staring at the wall across from him. His trademark teal blue shirt lay in tatters on the floor.

Steve was a wreck, his clothes were ruined and dried tears coated most of his face. He would have wiped them away but they came back in force every time he did. Across his body he bore multiple partially healed scars and lacerations from the blast that had taken his grandfather and almost killed him. On one hand he a partially healed wound inflicted by his grandfather's pickaxe. The wound had left a long angry red slash on his hand; blood had crusted around his fingertips where he had scratched at it. Steve traced his fingers along it and surveyed the wound as one would look at a very interesting curio. The wound had stopped bleeding a while ago but it never stopped hurting. Regardless, if Steve touched the wound or not he could always feel a steady, dull pain pounding in his hand. The throbbing pain was remarkably similar to that in his heart. Steve had not known until after the attack how much he loved his grandfather; after all it wasn't something he had given much thought about.

He sighed and looked away from his scarred hand. Now more than ever he wished he hadn't known his grandfather so well, or lived with him for so long. Steve had never felt the pain of losing his parents because they had disappeared when he was little and couldn't remember anything. But with his grandfather, that was a different story entirely. He remembered his brief time in the Aether with Horace, it wasn't even twelve hours ago but it felt like an eternity. As far as he knew it was the last time Steve would ever spend with the man. It was strange; in the Aether his grandfather had seemed so calm, so happy, and even proud of him. And there Steve was hours later, whimpering like a five year old girl and wallowing in self-pity. But he couldn't help it. Every time Steve tried to fight back the emotional tide it always overcame him, like it had earlier that day during both encounters with Nick. He hiccupped and looked back at his injured hand. The scar had become a symbol for him. A symbol of his life, torn apart yet somehow not destroyed. Somehow, his wound gave him the will to go on.

Steve walked across the room and picked up the sword by the hilt and gently removed the sheath from it. It was so simple now, with a single thrust he could be with his grandfather again. Then the curse would be over right? Herobrine wouldn't hurt anyone anymore because the family line would end here, with Steve. He had been reading some old texts of his grandfather's in the library. It was all there, the long miserable line of killings, one after the other. Anyone associated with Steve's family had been killed too. He didn't even have to look at a book to figure out he was the last sane member of his family alive. Nick had told him hours before that everyone except Steve had died in the inferno of the Lonely Dragon Inn. Steve tallied them off on his fingers, Horace, and now Enoch dead, and two more for his parents. Four. Actually, he wasn't the only one left if he counted Aunt Sheila. But she was crazy and locked away somewhere, so she might as well be dead too. Steve tallied another finger. Five.

He examined the battered iron blade- his fathers and grandfather's sword. It was the sword that had perpetrated years of violence as his grandfather had told him. The chance was tempting. In a flash his earthy torment would be over and he would be up in the Aether with his grandfather and his parents. Steve held the sword out, the sharp end pointed at his chest. Steve looked outside for a moment, at the fields of the farm and at the dying sun. The soft voice of his grandfather came back to him; _I would expect you to experience grief over my death Steven. Undoubtedly you will continue to experience it, perhaps for the rest of your life. For the rest of your life.._. He looked at the sword pointed at his chest; would he be doing anyone any good living in sorrow for the next five, ten, fifteen or twenty years? Steve closed his eyes, what about Nick? No, his friend would be saddened for a while but he had family to go to, and to take care of. Steve had no one, not anymore.

"What am I doing?" he asked, staring at the sword. He would only dishonor his grandfather by killing himself. After all, he was supposed to go to Arathor he had to pull himself together! Steve slowly held up the sword and looked at it again. There were several small markings on the hilt. Steve hadn't seen those before. He peered at them for a moment and read the inscription:

_May this sword give courage to the one who wields it and aid in destroying the cursed darkness forevermore._

Steve gripped the hilt tightly and then sheathed the sword. He sighed, got up, and paced around the room. Steve took several deep breaths to calm himself. _Focus!_ He thought. For starters Steve needed to find Nick, since his friend probably hadn't waited around the house for him to come out of his emotional coma for several hours. Nick was probably somewhere in Darton helping out the refugees and villagers and anyone else in need of aid.

"For Notches sake…" Steve sighed and grabbed the sheathed sword. He looked at the sheath for a moment, there was a crest engraved on it in the shape of a golden eagle. What does that mean? Steve traced it with his finger, and where had he gotten it? Steve hadn't thought much about it before. All he remembered was waking up from the Aether holding the sheath in his hand. Maybe he had grabbed it for some reason while trying to escape the fire.

Steve looked towards the desk and fetched his clock. He glanced at it for a moment, the sun on the dial had mostly disappeared and replaced by a shining white moon. By his reckoning it was about nine at night. _Right_, he thought he walked over to the door, yanked it open and started downstairs to fetch his pack and to go find Nick. However no sooner had Steve reached the landing before there was a loud knock on the door. Steve froze, looked towards the door and slowly drew his sword. Several more knocks followed, even louder than before.

"W-who is it?" he asked.

"Steve are you in there?" he heard someone ask.

"It's me." He replied. The voice sounded familiar, that at least was a good sign.

"Thank Notch." The voice replied "Open the door then, everyone's waiting outside."

"Nick?" Steve asked, lowering the sword. What did he mean everyone's waiting outside?

"Yeah. You feeling alright? Or do you mind letting us in?"

"I-yeah I'm okay." Steve replied, walking over and unlocking the door. No wonder the voice was familiar; it was his friend Nick. He stepped back as the door opened and several people barged inside.

"What the?!" Steve exclaimed, jumping back and sheathing his sword. "Nick, what's going on?" he asked looking at the half dozen people currently gathered by the door.

"They're refugees from the town. They don't have a place to sleep tonight so I told them about your house and they wanted to come with me." He explained. One of the refugees, a little girl with a charred, dirty face looked up at Steve hopefully.

"And you thought I'd just let them in did you?" Steve growled. The last thing he needed was to get a couple refugees killed as well when Herobrine came for him.

"You have a big house Steve. I just thought there might be room inside that's all…"

"I don't- everyone thinks that..." Steve started before he looked down at the little girl. Like Steve, she was battered and bruised there was a partially healed cut along her arm. She was looking straight at him. Steve stared into her eyes; they reflected a mixture of fear and hopefulness at the same time. Those bright blue eyes… they were like his own. How could he refuse them help when he so desperately needed it himself? He looked back at Nate,

"Do they need food?"

"They need as much as you can give them. The rest of the villagers barely have enough for themselves considering how much of it got burned…"

Steve pointed behind him and gestured leftwards "The kitchen's that way. Take as much as you like."

"Thank you." One of the refugees, an old woman said gratefully. Steve nodded and stepped aside as they hurried off towards the kitchen.

"You're a mess." Nick remarked once they were alone.

"You don't look so good yourself." Steve grumbled, sheathing his father's sword.

"Yeah…I know." Nick replied "We're all kinda messy I guess." Steve gave a hollow laugh at this. "How have you been holding up? You were crying…"

"I know I was crying!" he snapped. "I don't need you to tell me that! For Notches sake Nick…look at my face. I can't pull myself together…"

"I know." Nick said.

"No you don't!"

"Alright, I don't. But I can't help you if you're going to attack me half the time can I?" Nick said "Being by yourself isn't going to do you any good. And besides, look around you. How do you know other people didn't lose their families?"

"I don't-"

"Because they did Steve, people burned to death in their houses and everything-"

"Stop it!" Steve yelled. "Don't you realize I have enough to deal with?" Nick fell silent at this. "It- I need time to figure out what's going on… that's all."

"I understand." Nick said softly "I'm sorry."

"It's alright."

"Here I'd better check on the refugees…make sure they're not eating all your food."

"I'd be surprised if they could." He muttered as Nick brushed past him and into the kitchen. He sighed and looked at the fireplace on the opposite wall and tried not to think about his grandfather. Steve took a deep breath and listened to the sounds of Nick and the townspeople move around the kitchen. His gaze shifted to a mirror mounted on the mantelpiece. A pair of reddish eyes looked back at him. Steve flinched and put a hand up to his face. Nick was right, he looked terrible. He looked no different than the refugees from the village.

"Gods…" Steve murmured. However his thoughts were interrupted by a small voice from behind him. He whipped out his sword and turned to face his visitor. It was the blue-eyed little girl again.

"Thank you for the food." She said meekly, eyes widening at the sword. She was clutching a half-eaten loaf of bread in her tiny hands. Steve stared at her for a full minute before he could muster a response.

"I – sorry…" he muttered, sheathing the sword.

"My momma wants to know if you're okay. She said you look sad, but I think you're just lonely."

"W-what's your name?" Steve asked.

"Mina."

"Steve-?" Nick interjected. Mina turned to him and pointed at Steve.

"Mr. Nick… he looks sad. Why is he sad?"

"Well Mina, he'll be okay. He just needs some time alright?" Nick said offering a smile "He's just going through some problems that's all."

"Okay!" she said.

"Steve, can she use your to use the bathroom?"

"What? The- the bathroom? Oh yeah sure…" Steve mumbled.

"See? Now you can get nice and clean."

"Thank you but I think Steve should use it first!" Mina replied.

"You're right." He admitted, "But that's okay. I can wait."

"Thanks Steve." Nick said gratefully "There you go Mina, he's letting you go first. Anyway when you should get cleaned up and you'll be nice and beautiful, like the queen of Asnor."

"Okay!"

"Go on then." Nick said with a gentle nudge. Mina smiled and ran off to the kitchen.

"You should really get cleaned up Steve."

"Yeah…" he murmured, "Look at you…telling me I'm a mess…heh. I guess we're all a mess right now aren't we?"

Nick sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "It'll take a while before things get back to normal."

Steve turned and looked at his friend. Nick was as battered and bruised as he was. He felt his eyes well up with tears and in an instant they were coursing down his face. Nick's brow furrowed in concern,

"Steve-?"  
"I-I'm okay." Steve choked as he tried to hold back the tears "I'm fine, don't worry about me."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm fine!" Steve growled "I don't need you trying to be my nursemaid!"

"I was just trying to help mate…" Nick pleaded.

"Trying to help?" Steve yelped "You brought six refugees in here and you call that helping?"

"I- I thought it was the right thing to do." Nick said. Steve put his hands to his face. He could feel the stream of tears mixing with the dirt and blood in his palms.

"I don't …I don't need more problems than I've already got!" Steve yelled "Can't you understand that?"

"Steve…mate-I didn't mean to…"

"J-Just leave me… ALONE!"

"I'm sorry- I didn't…"

Steve ignored him and quickly strode off to the staircase. He could faintly hear Nick's footsteps away from him and back into the kitchen. That was good; HE needed to figure out what he was going to do anyway. Steve paced around for several minutes, thinking. It was a mess; everything had been screwed up since he saw those white eyes back in Nate's cart.

What in Notches name was he supposed to do? Steve wiped away some of the tears from his cheeks and stared up at the ceiling. His grandfather had told him he was supposed to save the world and go to Arathor to that strip mine. He remembered Nate talking about an ancient text that contained everything about Herobrine. But Horace had mentioned another one that explained… what was it again? _What Nate could not_? That made sense at least since everyone in the Lonely Dragon except him had died in the fire after all. But where was this text? Steve sniffed and wiped his nose.

"Come on…get it together…" he growled. His grandfather had left him the map, the sword, and the book. Steve comprised the mental list in his head. He had the sword but the map…he had left it in his bag! Steve cursed and raced down the staircase and into the living room. He looked around wildly before finally locating his tattered brown bag near one of the chairs. Steve grabbed it and rushed back upstairs and into his grandfather's study. He threw the map down on the table and quickly found the rumpled old map, squashed under a few stale bread slices. Gently, as to avoid creating any rips in the map he brushed off the crumbs and put it down on the table. Then Steve turned his attentions to the enormous bookshelf that lined one wall of his grandfather's study. He almost smiled just at the memory of his grandfather telling him that he only kept the thing around to impress his visitors. Thankfully the bookshelf held only a handful of books but was mostly filled by curiosities including a few silver ingots and several lapis lazuli.

Steve gave the shelf a once over and started taking the books off the shelf and putting them on the table. By the time the shelf had been relieved of its books he had a stack of nearly sixty-one volumes amassed on the desk and on the floor. Steve cursed. Why couldn't his grandfather have at least told him what book he was supposed to be looking for? Steve rubbed his temples and surveyed the books for a moment. Well… on the plus side most of the books appeared to be pretty thin so at least it wouldn't take too long clear through them.

One by one, the minutes passed by. There was no sound save for the occasional tick of the clock or someone cleaning themselves up in one of the bathrooms. After what he estimated to have been about an hour Steve had gone through roughly half the books and found nothing relevant. Although he did find a journal of his grandfather's which he had previously spent far too much time reading. He put the thing in his pack along with a book about edible herbs and fungi that had been composed by his grandfather's grandfather. Steve had a feeling a book about edible plants in the surrounding area would come in handy if he ran out of food during the journey.

At short length Steve reached the bottom of the book pile. Steve grabbed the final book and gingerly placed it in his lap, wincing as the binding grated against his wounded hand. He looked down at the book but there was no title. Steve frowned and looked at the binding but there wasn't a title there either. _So you're the mystery book…_ he thought. The lack of a title gave him some confidence; perhaps this was the book that would shed some light on the mystery of Herobrine.

Steve opened the book and began to read. It quickly became obvious that the book was a family history. The table of contents consisted of the names of hundreds of family members dating back several centuries – the list was so long that Steve didn't even recognize many of the names. Apparently the list had been organized according to date of birth as no alphabetical order was evident and his grandfather, aunt, and himself were all listed at the bottom of the table. Steve paused, he was surprised his grandfather had never shown him the book before – after all it was about his ancestry. But then again, hadn't Horace told him that the family past had been unpleasant? _I never told you about it as it was a memory of past violence in my family bloodline that I chose to ignore._ Although Horace had said that in regards to his father's sword but in a way it made sense that he would want to forego the family history book as well. Steve figured that the book must have been a reminder of the violent family past just like the sword had been.

Steve sighed and flipped through the rest of the pages. He had reached his page at the back of the book and still hadn't found any mention of Herobrine or white eyes – let alone a picture. He couldn't find anything his grandfather had told him about. There wasn't any secret or anything as far as he could tell.

"Why does everything have to be a riddle?!" Steve yelled, throwing the book against stack causing them to fall into a messy heap. He shook his head and picked up the book and started looking through it a second time. Maybe he had missed something in it.

Steve rifled through the pages but there was nothing except for one sad biography after another of family members meeting untimely deaths or disappearing into thin air. _Come on… where are you?_ he thought in frustration. Steve looked through the pages for a while longer before he was convinced that Herobrine or White Eyes was not mentioned anywhere in the book. In his rage he banged the book on the table, threw it on the floor, he even tried talking to it or yelling at it – but nothing worked.

"Damn it… why?" Steve cried throwing the book with the rest of the pile. "What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do? Tell me! Tell me grandfather!" he wailed before sinking into the pile of books, tears streaming from his face.

Steve choked as he attempted to wipe the tears away, "Is that it? A-am I about to die-?"

At these words there was a loud bang throwing him against the desk. Steve cried out and slowly picked himself off the floor. He wiped away the tears and stared at the book pile, the family history book had blown apart around the spine. Without warning a chorus of voices exploded around his ears and the book simmered in a bright gold light. Steve tried to move but he was frozen in place by some invisible force. Squinting against the light he raised his hands up to his eyes as the voices began to chant.

_Many centuries ago,_

_Before time and reason existed,_

_There existed three brothers of divinity,_

_Notch, Jeb, and Baez,_

_They created many things,_

_The earth, the sky, and the sun, _

_The birds, the sheep, and wildlife,_

_Yes these were their creations,_

_Notch then created a caretaker for all these wonders,_

_Man was his creation,_

_The embodiment of Notch, _

_Given a steady hand by him and intelligence by Jeb,_

_But they were not entirely satisfied,_

_Baez never had his say,_

_A quarrel soon ensured and Baez withdrew,_

_He created his own personal realm, _

_Into the hellish world of the Nether with all its creations,_

_Demons of fire and wraiths of the dead,_

_In his personal hell, _

_He created the counter to man,_

_One into which he poured his hatred,_

_His jealousy, _

_His wrath, _

_The one known as white eyes,_

_He unleashed his terrible creation upon mankind,_

_It was greater than all else he had created, _

_Killing without mercy and instilling fear into the hearts of all,_

_We were commissioned to do Notch's bidding,_

_And to protect the lands from further harm,_

_Baez and his foul creations were locked,_

_Deep in the nether for eternity,_

_But the white-eyed man escaped,_

_He lives on the souls of others,_

_Through a terrible white orb,_

_He stole the bodies of every one,_

_Of our ancestors,_

_In an act of revenge that is never forgotten, _

_Every eighteen years one is killed,_

_Some have tried to stop,_

_What has taken place,_

_But there is no way but one,_

_However difficult it can be done,_

_With a blade of true diamond,_

_Dug from the mines of stone with a pick of iron,_

_Into the domain of the fiend you,_

_Son of the line must go, _

_And a portal into hell, _

_To avenge the deaths of so many,_

_Destroy the evil underlying the world,_

_Once and for all,_

_Your task is clear,_

_The destruction can end,_

_If your heart is true,_

_The reign of evil will fall,_

_Now go! And Notch be with you._

With that there was a loud bang and the light slowly faded and the book fluttered to the ground. Suddenly there was an explosion of light and a blast of wind punched him in the chest Steve stumbled and fell against something hard. There was a sharp pain in the back of his head and he saw no more.

To be continued…


End file.
